


Brave, Gentle, Strong

by JonsaInTheNorth, Targaryens of Dragonstone (JonsaInTheNorth)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Cheating, F/F, F/M, Heavy Angst, Love Triangles, Multi, OT3, Political Marriage, Post-Battle of Winterfell, Post-War for the Dawn, Slow Burn, Unexpected Pregnancy, northern independence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2020-01-25 17:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18578761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonsaInTheNorth/pseuds/JonsaInTheNorth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonsaInTheNorth/pseuds/Targaryens%20of%20Dragonstone
Summary: The Night King is defeated, the battle is ended, the dead heroes are burned, but the song is not yet done.Now, Dany must grapple with the news of her newfound family and the possibility for the Targaryen line to continue beyond her... and beyond her brother’s son. She offer Sansa an impossible choice, one that will destroy the Lady of Winterfell's independence but grant her heart's desire and protect the North in perpetuity. Jon is caught between the two halves of himself, between two Queens, Targaryen and Stark, Fire and Ice, Dragon and Direwolf, honor and dishonor...





	1. DANY I

**Author's Note:**

> I mutually ship Jon/Sansa and Sansa/Dany and Jon/Dany. I'm kinda sick of ship wars that are taking over tumblr. This fic is my response. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dragon Queen ponders the Winter Lady.

** DANY I **

In the end, the Night King was just a man and he died like one. Unlike the other White Walkers, the sword that pieres his frozen heart passes right through his torso. With surprise in his icy eyes, he meets Jon’s gaze. Jon steps back immediately. Daenerys and Drogon dive down and bath him in a wash of blazing fire. Minutes pass with Jon staring at the flames, Dany’s face contorted in a vengeful, angry expression as she destroys the _thing_ that killed and deformed her child.

When she is satisfied that he is truly dead, she glances down at Jon. He nods at her, imperceptibly, and she feels relieved and angry and saddened by his face, all at once. Their enemy is truly gone. Ignoring the complicated feelings, Dany spurs Drogon up and away, and all that is left of the Night King is a pile of dull leaden ashes and melted Valyrian steel.

She lands beyond the legions of Unsullied and Dothraki, far enough away that the dragon will not startle the horses. But perhaps they are beyond startling, standing as they are among the newly-dead bodies of wights, from humans to giants to horses to bears.

Her men look stunned as she nears them, searching their faces for her commanders and friends. _Are they alive? Am I, or is this all just a dream?_ The last members of the enemy army must have fallen when the Night King was finally destroyed.

Relief fills her when Qhono appears in the crowd, his dragonglass arakh clutched in one hand and his horse’s reins in the other. “ _Khaleesi_ , is it done?”

“It is done.” She says and while part of her wants to smile, she is so, _so_ tired. The battle raged all night, through the day and into the night again. She does not know what the hour is or even what day. She looks to the horizon, but it is still dark as the hour of the wolf.

Dany climbs behind Qhono and they head toward the safety of the walls of Winterfell. The numbers of her army have dwindled, she sees it just from riding through their masses. They stand and walk and some just sit, unsure of what comes next. The nightmare is over, but how can they know?

She calls to what commanders and lieutenants she sees, telling them to settle their remaining men by the fires and bring the wounded undead into the castle. Slowly, they leave the snowy field of battle and their fallen comrades. The end of this battle is not like the ones Dany has lived through before, where the conquest and rage and defense and excitement filled her. There are no enemy soldiers to ask to bend the knee, no harpies to punish, no enemy combatants to send away, no Masters to crucify for the deaths of child slaves. There is only an empty expanse of death and destruction, and the living left to question whether it was worth it to stay alive.

In the keep, Dany falls into her bed like a feather, light and delicate and down. Sleep comes and with it dreams of her family, mostly of Viserys but her other brother too, or at least what she imagines Rhaegar looked like.  She feels someone snuggle in with her and then leave, a body more feminine than Jon's, a woman weeping into Dany's shoulder, but she is so deep into her sleep that she draws the person closer but does not wake herself. Rhaegar's face morphs and forms, between Viserys and Jon, Jon and Viserys, fire and ice and night and day and light and dark and life and death.

When a knock on her door wakes Dany, one vision is branded on the back of her eyelids and in her mind and everywhere she looks: the small, deformed body of her son sitting in the dawn.

To her surprise, it is Lady Sansa, who looks just as tired as Dany felt all those hours ago. But of course she is. Even though Sansa did not fight the battle, she guarded their people’s minds and kept the young and old and infirm safe in Winterfell’s crypts. And after, Sansa would have been the one to oversee the settling in of the warriors and wounded, making sure they were fed and healed and cared for. Sansa may be a lady, but there is a steely strength to her, too.

“I’m sorry for waking you, your grace.” Sansa comes to Dany’s bedside and motions to sit. Dany nods, her eyes falling over Sansa’s form. Surprisingly, a long, blood gash tears through her clothes and forearm.

Dany sits upright. “What happened to you? Did the dead break the walls or did one of ours hurt you?”

Sansa measures Dany carefully. “The dead were in the walls, your grace. The ancient Starks embalmed their dead and my ancestors rose to terrorize us at the Night King’s command.”

Horror fills Dany’s gut, pulling at her stomach and her heart. If there were anything in her stomach, it may have come up. She racks her mind, thinking of her people there. Sansa covers Dany’s hand with her own. Her touch is warm and gentle, and she speaks in a soothing voice.

“Lady Missandei is safe, but frightened. So are Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion, although Varys nearly lost his leg. A few smallfolk were killed and others injured, but a little girl had the quick thinking to set the crypts alight.” Sansa straightened. “Jon has called a council. The sun has not risen still... will you come?”

“Of course.” Dany gathers herself and her clothing, asking Sansa to stay and help with her hair. Before that, she tears the edge off an underdress to wrap round Sansa's blood-crusted sleeve, since she would not accept one of Dany's own dresses.

“Could you fashion it like yours? I’m not familiar with the half-braids you have on the side.”

She wants to rule the Northerners. Perhaps it is time she look like one, share their culture and ways. Sansa moves gracefully and quietly, and before long Dany’s hair is fashioned in a similar way. Dany gazes up at the stern Lady of Winterfell. Once, Dany thought those eyes were blue ice, her jaw and cheekbones chiseled of the same stuff. That was before she looked into the heart of winter and saw true death embodied. Now, she focuses on the warm beauty of Sansa Stark, the gently curled hair glowing like burnished copper, the tall body and straight back, the careful stitches in her gown and the pinkish tinge that rises in her cheeks whenever she is embarrassed or excited or happy. Dany hopes see her happy more often.

“How long was I asleep?”

“It’s been nearly twenty hours.” Sansa steps back from Dany’s hair. “Many of the fighters still sleep, but Jon awoke and when we told him there had been no light, he grew concerned.”

“What of our dead?” Dany asks, no matter how scared she is to hear the answer. She must be brave and face the future of her realm.

"Of your people, the Unsullied captain Grey Worm and Ser Jorah Mormont." Sansa swallows. "I'm sorry for your loss, your grace. I'm told they fought bravely, and Ser Jorah died protecting his cousin."

The sadness comes to Dany like the ocean's waves, suddenly then all at once, pushing and pulling at her heart strings. "Thank you for telling me." She rises and tries to keep the tears at bay and yet they force their way beyond her control. Lady Sansa gently offers a handkerchief and wipes away Dany's sorrow. She is startled by the kindness of the gesture and the lady's soft touch. She leans into it until she is leaning into Sansa, who rubs her back and holds her close until the queen has cried all she can and more.

Dany backs away and takes Sansa's hand in her own, gentler than last she took it. "Did you lose anyone? Is your sister alright?"

"Arya lives, your grace." Her words are nearly a whisper. "Theon Greyjoy, my dear friend…he was slain, on the field of battle."

"I'm sorry, my lady. He was a good man, from what little I knew of him." Dany's words ring hollow, she knows, but they are all she can offer. She squeezes Sansa's hand. Staring into Sansa's eyes, she thinks about what Sansa asked her in the library of the castle, about what Sansa wants for herself and her people. Freedom, for the North and all its peoples.

They walk in silence from Dany's chamber to the council room, but before they enter she turns to Sansa. "Did Jon tell you?"

Sansa blinks, her face smooth as a shield and silent as one. "Yes, your grace." Her silence holds for a beat and Dany can see Sansa calculating, waiting for what to say. "He does not mean to challenge your claim, if that's why you ask."

"It's not. I only wondered..." Dany is not quite ready to share her plans, yet. "Call me Daenerys, please. We've survived the end of our world together and we are family now, of a sorts."

"Daenerys, then." Sansa's voice is steady and on her lips, Dany's true name sounds like a song. When Jon calls her "Dany," she feels young and free and cared for. But "Daenerys" from Sansa…it makes her feel brave. Her heart pangs to think of Jon, but she must face him soon enough and let him know how she feels and what she plans. She hopes he will agree, although it may not be enough to have what she offers in exchange for doing what she asks.

It is too early, the pain of their loss all too fresh. But when the dead are burnt or buried, she means to offer Sansa the North's independence. For a price. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can hit me up at [tumblr](https://www.jonsainthenorth.tumblr.com) for more Game of Thrones fun.


	2. JON I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterfell’s rulers ponder its future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind feedback I got on the last chapter! Hopefully there’s more of this fic to come later. I’m not quite sure where I’m going to take it, but we shall see.

**JON I**

In one sweeping motion, he removes the blocks that represent the Night King, wights, and White Walkers off the war room table. The satisfaction that comes from this action is immense and indescribable. But still, the wall to their north is destroyed, Cersei Lannister moves in the south, and he isn’t sure if the end of all this war and destruction will ever truly be over.

Dany enters with Sansa and his heart nearly stops in his chest. Dany is a vision in a black and red dress lined with dark grey fur, her hair braided almost identically to Sansa’s northern plaits. Sansa shines just as beautifully, but her weariness is more evident. He spoke with her before she went to fetch Dany and knows she has only slept a few short hours over these last few days. Once this council is done, Jon will insist she take to her chambers and post a guard at her door so that no one can bother the Lady of Winterfell. She deserves a rest as much as any of the warriors who fought on the field.

Jon smiles hesitantly at them both, not sure what kind of reaction to expect. It is just the three of them in the war room, three of five total people who know the true identities of Jon’s parents. He will tell Arya later, but she has been missing since he confirmed that she still lived.

The room is tense as Dany takes her place at the opposite end of the table from Jon.

“How are you, your grace?” Jon asks. He cannot think of anything else to say but does not want to fill the silence with stewing on their parts.

“I have a headache, and I’m fairly famished. The battle left me feeling unwell. Dany glances down at the map of Winterfell and the surrounding countryside and picks up the small green dragon replica. When she looks up, there is a warm smile on her face. “Have you visited him?”

“I have.” Jon takes a seat at the head of the table with Sansa to his left where she has belonged for so long. “I took Rhaegal out with Drogon, to burn the fallen and assure they were all dead.”

He sees Dany’s face fall, as she realizes not only that she did not help ensure the end of the battle for good, but that Drogon followed Jon to see it happen. When first he went to see her, she had looked so soft and peaceful, despite sleeping in her battle dress, he did not want to disturb her rest. Dany had been the one to puncture Viserion’s wings, wounding him enough that Jon could bring Rhaegal to burn the wight-dragon. She had watched her child die again and then killed the Night’s King herself.

And the second time he went to raise her, Missandei had crawled into bed for the comfort of Dany’s warmth and to mourn the loss of Grey Worm. That was a tender moment he could not interrupt, Missandei crying herself to sleep in her closest friend’s arms.

Jon wants to reach out and comfort Dany now, but she is so far away across the table and Sansa sits as their audience. Is that acceptable, anyway? What are we now, that I am your nephew and not just your lover? To a Targaryen queen, their relationship would not be so strange. But to Jon... once long ago, Jonnel Stark had married his niece, Sansa, although no issue resulted from their union. It is not so strange, then, he thinks, and besides I barely know her as my family.

He glances at Sansa, wondering what she thinks of this pregnant silence between them. He told her after the battle and his long rest, and sought her advice about the politics of his birth. To his surprise, Sansa urged him to announce it to the North and unite in marriage with Dany. Her voice had cracked as she told him, but it was true: “A union with the North would protect our people, if she would not give us independence. If you would be willing to follow her south... she could not be threatened by another Targaryen if you were at her side, and the North would be safe all your reign at her side and through your children.” 

Jon did not share Dany’s curse of barrenness with Sansa. It was not his secret to say.

Across the table, Dany meets his eyes. Her gaze is distant and forlorn but he feels the fire of her in his soul. He stares at her deeply,

Jon still loves her, but there is much uncertain now. And her reaction when he told her...she was more concerned with the Iron Throne than his horror. He doesn’t want the throne in the south, he never wanted to one the North gave him. But Dany doesn’t know that and only saw a rival contender for the kingdoms that was her birthright. She’s the only true heir to Aegon the Conqueror, her the Stormborn Targaryen, Mother of Dragons, with the lilac eyes of her ancestors and the silver hair of blood of ancient Valyria. Jon belonged to the North, the cold and the snow and the ice.

His thoughts are interrupted by the entry of their council, or what remains of it: Varys, Tormund, Qhono the Dothraki bloodrider, Tyrion and Jaime. Sam lives, but is absent to tend the wounded along side Dany’s Lady Missandei. An Unsullied man comes, the newly elected leader, who introduces himself curtly as Hero. Davos wheels in Bran, half his face blackened from where the Night’s King touched him. Jon thinks of the other dead and injured. His little sister Arya sleeps in the infirmary, too cut up and her exposed back frost bitten. Lord Royce from the Vale takes his customary spot at Sansa’s shoulder as Lady Karstark and Lyanna Mormont close the door behind them.

The emptiness of the war room burns into Jon’s mind. Beric Dondarrion, Sandor Clegane, Jorah Mormont, Lord Manderly, and other advisors to the Northern Lords and Ladies with names that Jon never learned. Most obvious to him are the loss of Theon Greyjoy, a brother in all but name no matter how he had turned traitor and cajoled Jon through the years, and Dolorous Ed, his faithful friend through life and death and life again. Sam had found Ed’s body and they’d burned it quietly together on the hills outside the keep, watching until the smoke disappeared into the night and his body was nothing more than ash.

Jon looks around the table once more and sighs heavily. “We have lost this battle but won this war. Every man and woman in this room, in this very castle, has lost family and friends since the Walkers arrived. But day has not yet come.”

They begin discussions for their plans to redistribute the men within the walls of Winterfell and what resettlement problems have arisen. Bran has searched the ravens’ minds but has seen no sign of other wights or enemies nearby. He cannot answer why their world is still darkened. Once, when Lady Karstark stumbles and accidentally addresses Jon as “Your Grace,” he catches Dany watching him, gaze prying deep into his own. He brushes the comment along and moves along to the next point.

Finally, Sansa takes the lead on the most pressing issue at hand: the number of people left in Winterfell and how long in the night the supply of grain and root vegetables will last them through the Night. Their supplies are lower than expected because of the great army from the South, but they could not have survived this battle without them.

“I propose we lower rations for the warriors by a quarter and for the rest by half until we can discern how long this Night will last.” The lords and ladies around the table nod in agreement. None of them have the true understanding of preparing for the Winter for it is a woman’s role in all parts of Westeros and the Southerners have never prepared for a Northern winter. Even among the Northerners, Lyanna Mormont and Alys Karstark are both too young to have learned these lessons yet. If Sansa and Lord Royce believe this decision to be best, they will believe their sums.

Sansa closes her eyes as if summoning her strength, then stands. She stares hard at Dany and Qhono and Jon suddenly feels ice climbing up his spine. The Dothraki commander senses it and his hand tightens on the edge of his chair. Whatever she is about to say cannot be good.

“We should also slaughter the excess Dothraki horses for food.” She pauses, taking in Dany’s shock and Qhono’s brewing anger. Before either can speak in retaliation, Sansa continues. “And some of the horses with living riders as well.”

Qhono bolts up and shouts in Dothraki, gesturing angrily at Sansa. Dany’s gaze is icier than Jon has ever seen it. Normally, her rage is like a raging flame, but today she is all sleet.

”My commander asks, how they are meant to fight without their horses.” Dany asks, and leans in. “I would also like to know why just the Dothraki must sacrifice their mounts and not the Northern forces.”

Sansa gestures toward the parchments of calculations scattered in front of her. ”Your Grace, My Lord, we have already eaten many of the horses ridden by the Knights of the Vale. A single horse can eat between twenty and forty pounds of grain a day. We must spare as many resources as we can.” Sansa stares firmly into the eyes of Qhono and holds his gaze. She speaks slowly and in a soft tone, so Dany may easily translate her words into the angry language of the horselords. “While the Dothraki’s mounts were bred to carry a single rider through Essosi plains, the remaining mounts from the North and the Eyrie are those that have the strength to pull wains and wagons of supplies and people. If we decided to abandon the castle, those horses are more necessary for our people’s flight and journey south.”

Qhono speaks hurried words to Dany but they sound less angry. The queen nods firmly and answers back, and he settles back into his seat, still boring a stare through Sansa’s being. Dany looks troubled and Jon nearly can read her thoughts.

“Without those horses, it will be much more difficult to take Westeros back from Cersei.” She weaves her fingers together, brow creased in consternation. “But with those horses alive, how many of my men would die? How many of my people?”

Her gaze levies on Sansa. “Thousands, your grace.”

“As I thought. Qhono will oversee the selection of horses for the slaughter so proper Dothraki rites may be honored. They do not kill riding horses so easily but he will see the thing done.”

Sansa bows her head in deference and sat in her seat. A few more details are hashed out, mostly concerning the immediate repairs necessary to the western walls where the legions of the undead breached the castle’s safety and invaded the godswood. Where Theon Greyjoy died defending Bran. Only two ironmen escaped, his brother cradled in their arms.

The council leaves quickly and quietly. The entire castle has been quiet, their people not fully recovered from the horror they lived in. Finally, it was just Jon and his queen.

For the first time since the battle began, he sees her smile and it warms his heart like no fire ever could. The thing is soft, small, secretive - just a moment of happiness between them. Dany walks over to him and he pulls back from the table. She settles on his lap and buries her head against his chest. Jon wraps his arm around her, hoping beyond all reason that they could stay like this, forever with nary a concern for the world outside them.

They sat there for a century or a minute, Jon could not tell. But when Dany stands, he follows after. Before long, he is leading, guiding her to the ruins of the godswood where his father - uncle - would spend hours sharpening his sword each day of Jon’s childhood.

She looks around in wonder at its beauty, and if the light were here she would be a beautiful vision: a silver-haired woman in a black dress stark against the white and red and green of the godswood. Jon almost smiles, watching her before going to stare at the black pool of water. It’s never frozen in all his years alive, he doesn’t think he’s ever heard of it freezing, and yet now it has.

Dany steps behind him and links her arm around his elbow. He sets his hand on top of hers and stares at the milky blankness of the pool, so like Bran’s gaze when he sees into the future.

“What was it like, growing up here?” Dany asks, her voice nearly a whisper. “Growing up a Stark?”

“I wasn’t though. I was a Snow.”

“Eddard Stark must have loved you very much, to raise you with his own children.” She squeezes his hand. “To treat you as his own.”

“I had brothers and sisters, yes, but I knew my role was different from my earliest days, when Robb was given special lessons and care that I was not.” They begin walking, slowly around the pool and deep into the godswood. “Lady Catelyn, his wife, did not want me here. She did not treat me badly, but she ignored me to the greatest of her abilities. She was always afraid I would try to displace my brother as Lord of Winterfell.”

She died thinking her husband dishonored her with my mother. He thinks, for the first time since he received the news of his true birth. She couldn’t have known...

“You loved him, though?” Dany‘s light, airy voice sounds wistful. She’s told him little of her brother, but from what he knows he was a cruel, mad Targaryen. They spent their childhood on the run. Just like him, she never knew a mother’s love. He remembers Melisandre’s words: At least you had family. At least you had feasts.

“Yes. I did.”

Dany lets go of his arm and steps back, distancing the space between him. Jon wonders what he had said to offend her. “It’s time we talk about what you told me before the battle. About your birth family.” Jon swallows hard. Am I ready for this? His jaw hardened with consternation. It doesn’t matter. I have to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can hit me up at [tumblr](https://www.jonsainthenorth.tumblr.com) for more Game of Thrones fun.


	3. SANSA I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys makes an offer. Sansa confronts their similarities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave any Sansa, Dany, or Jon hate at the door. This is a fic celebrating all three of them.

SANSA I

Daenerys Targaryen is the most beautiful woman Sansa has ever seen. She used to dream of Targaryens when she a girl, from Rhaenys to Shaera. Arya favored the stories of the fierce warriors, like Visenya and Daena, although she loved Queen Nymeria most of all. Sansa’s favorite had always been the tragedy of Queen Naerys and the Dragonknight. Looking at this Queen, though, with her sad lilac eyes and shining silver hair plaited back in neat Northern braids, she thinks she had the wrong of it to admire Targaryens at all. For one does not admire gods, one worships them.

The queen’s first words startle Sansa, blunt and quick as they come. “You don’t mean it do you, when you said you should thank me?”

Sansa cannot help her bitter smile. The queen is more perceptive than Sansa thought. She should not underestimate such an opponent, just as she should not overestimate such an ally. “No. I didn’t, but at the time it seemed better to send you off to battle with happier thoughts and a mind unclouded by our own disputes.

“Don’t lie to your monarch.” Daenerys warns. While there is steel in her tone and ice in those haunting eyes, a fireplayfully dances beneath it all. “Unless I ask you how I look, of course.” The queen smiles and Sansa almost laughs at this interaction.   _I have not heard such a lighthearted joke since before Cersei_ , she thinks. _Perhaps when Jeyne and I went to the Tournament of the Hand_...

But that memory is a world away and this is a different queen. “Why have you sought me out, your grace?”

Queen Daenerys motions to the seats by the fire, a table set between them with Sansa’s discarded book and a pitcher of wine. Sansa sits back down and pours a glass for them both. “I would like to make a proposition.”

“To me?” Sansa regrets how startled she must sound before the great Dragon Queen, but Daenerys’s visit to the library has caught Sansa off guard. She escaped here after their meeting to mull on the preparations of supplies and the darkness outside. There is little advice Sansa can offer in any war, but especially in this one, where the enemy is a dark spot on the horizon, a magic being she never though would exist.

But Sansa is well-read, and many of the stories Old Nan told when she was a child were about the Long Night and the eternal winter that lasted a generation. Sansa wants to see the sun again, and wants her children to see it to. The enemy is gone but the Night remains. She hopes to read, will read every scroll and book if she must, to find an answer to their dilemma.

She rips her lingering gaze from the shelves to look at the Dragon Queen, resplendent before her even in her simple mourning gown. Sansa swallows down her edge of steel, putting on her most pleasant armor of courtesy and conviction. “What is your proposition, your grace?”

“I would offer you the Northern crown, and in exchange you’ll given me a king. Or a queen.”

“A crown for a king?” Sansa raises her chin and leans into their conversation. “What do you mean, your grace? Are you asking my leave to marry Jon?”

A shot of sorrow flashes through the queen’s eyes and she briefly flashes a glance into the fire, away from Sansa’s strong gaze. But it is gone, in a fast moment.

“You want Northern independence from the rest of Westeros.” Daenerys’s voice sounds more distant, more queenly than Sansa has ever heard it. “I want my kingdom back, and freedom for my people from Cersei.”

She nods, waiting for the other woman to get make her point.

“I’m barren, Lady Sansa.” Daenerys admits, sadness breaking through her queenly mask. Sansa thinks of the children she once wanted so desperately, sons and daughters named after the family she had lost. For the first time, she understands this queen’s great pain in a way she had not before. In a way she could not, for one who seemed to have everything Sansa had lacked, and had received so easily - power and followers and dragons and agency.

But now, Sansa can see Daenerys as a woman, not just a queen. For children are a woman’s dream (at least for most, Arya being a rare exception), and to not fulfill that dream, to be unable...

“I am sorry. I did not know.” Sansa takes Daenerys’s hand, surprised by the pulsing warmth that emanates from her like a fire. Are all Targaryens so hot, or is it just this one?

“A witch cursed my womb for my first husband’s actions, and my own. While I have lain with a few lovers since then, I have not quickened and will never bare a living child.”

Sansa tightens her grip on Daenerys’s hand, genuinely hoping the gesture comforts the queen in some small way. But Sansa does not know if there is comfort she can offer to one who has had but lost so much.

Finally, she breaks the silence. “What does this all have to with me?”

“By the old ways, I should be Jon’s heir but he has not made any attempt to claim title over Westeros.” Daenerys looks at Sansa, as if inspecting her fully. Her eyes linger on Sansa’s midriff and it takes everything in Sansa not to curl her arms around herself. “He is my heir, then, but I need assurances that he will not rise against me once I sit the iron throne, and that he will provide the throne with an heir after both of us our gone.”

Sansa widens her eyes. _She_ _doesn’t_ _mean_... _she_ _cannot_ _mean_ \- “Your grace, are you suggesting that I and Jon, that we, we -“

“Marry?” Daenerys pulls back her hand from under Sansa’s. She misses the comfort of it, and that Targaryen warmth, for she now needs comforting. “Yes. I am. I know he is a brother in your eyes, but my parents were siblings, and their parents before them. For a Targaryen, it means nothing.”

“I don’t know what to say, your grace.”

“Daenerys, please.” The queen no longer smiles. “We may be family, after all.”

“Daenerys, then.” The name rolls over her tongue like a whisper of wind through the trees. “And our child, if we had one, would be your heir?”

 _Would my child be taken from me?_  Sansa means. They would have taken her children with Tyrion, too, to be raised as Lannisters away from their Stark mother.....Sansa feels like the wights are pulling at her legs all over again, like her death is imminent and pressing in. _I cannot breath. I cannot breath_..... the last time she wed she could not breath either. _Would Jon love me like Ramsay did?_ A shudder runs up her back and she feels her wounds pulsing in her back, like blood pours from the scars again.

Sansa leans into the soft touch holding her, clutches at the warmth of this gentle body...warm like fire, fire like flame, flame like dragons... _Daenerys_.

She pulls away, realizing the tears that stream down her face and tries to wipe them off, quickly. But Daenerys is already dabbing them away with a handkerchief that smells like sun and sand and lemons and coconuts. “It’s alright. You’re safe, Sansa. I promise.”

“I, I’m sorry, your grace.” Sansa straightens her back, trying to regain the facade of a Lady. “I do not know what overcame me -“

“Jon told me about your late husband. What he did to you.” Daenerys settles Sansa back into her seat and sits opposite her. She intertwines her fingers and sets her hands in her own lap. “My brother Viserys used to climb in bed besides me, and once I flowered he began to touch me in ways I didn’t realize were wrong until I was much older. That same brother sold me to Khal Drogo when I was barely sixteen. I fell in love with him eventually, but for months I was nothing more than a mare for him to brood an heir upon.

“Before the Dothraki swore allegiance to me, one of their khals captured me, beat me, whipped me, and was going to rape me until he realized that I was one of their former khaleesis.” Daenerys levels her gaze upon Sansa. “I tell you this because I know what it’s like to be hurt, to feel powerless. I know what I ask of you is hard, and I would not ask it unless I thought it was necessary for the peace of both our realms.”

Sansa does not speaks, waiting for Daenerys to explain herself in full. The queen sets her hands on the arms of her chair and continues, “I can vouch that Jon will be a gentle lover and I know he will not hurt you in anyway. If you require time to adjust to him in your bed, he will wait.

“Do this for me: marry Jon, recognize my authority in the south and the independence of Pyke under Queen Yara Greyjoy. In turn, I will recognize you as Queen and Jon as your King-Consort. Not just of the North, but of the Vale and all the Riverlands north of the Red Fork, as well as Riverrun. Your cousin’s lands and your uncle’s will all be under your protection, Stark protection, in perpetuity.”

Sansa gasps. She thought she understood what Daenerys wanted - Sansa’s blood and claim and womb - but this is more.  _The North is ours. The North is safe. In perpetuity_

“And you want one of my children in return.” The pain seeps into her voice, past the awe and surprise.

Daenerys nods, but her expression is kind. “Given the many separations in your family and your own history, I understand that you would not want to send a child south without protections.” Daenerys uncrosses her ankles, subtle movement but some to show that she may be just as nervous as Sansa. “I would come visit, once or twice a year, and send my own teachers and masters to oversee the child’s education. And only when they are full grown will they come south, unless I die before then and Jon will stand in as Lord Regent.”

Sansa sets her elbow upon the table and her chin on her fist, pondering all these words. Independence is a great prize. She hoped to win it for the North, but had not thought Daenerys would give up any of the Riverlands or the Vale.

“What does Jon say, about this arrangement?”

“I wanted to tell you first, so you didn’t think I was attacking you from all sides.”

“He will be hard to convince.”

Dany grins, the first genuine smile Sansa has seen light up the queen’s face. Even during her speech at their victory celebration, she had not looked so giddy. “You are a formidable woman, Sansa Stark. Between you and I, what chance would he stand?”

Sansa smiles, a gentle, little thing. “He wouldn’t be able to.”

“Exactly.”

She glances back at the fire. “May I have some time to think it over and speak with my advisors, your grace?”

“Of course. This is no small thing I ask of you, my lady.”

Sansa hears the way Daenerys speaks the title, the hidden meaning.  _She wants to address me as an equal, as another queen_.

Daenerys stands to leave. “If you have any questions, any counterpoints, please seek me out.”

“I will.”

The dragon leaves and the wolf stares out the window, into the face of a raging winter storm, as an even greater storm rages within her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can hit me up at [tumblr](https://www.jonsainthenorth.tumblr.com) to chat about Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa and more Game of Thrones things!


	4. SANSA II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa discuss their options.

"We would need to - to -" Jon's face turns bright red, likely for the same reason Sansa's does. She has made Queen Daenerys' proposal to Jon and, to speak lightly of the issue, he was not thrilled.

In her mind, she recalls the few times she has seen his naked torso, taut muscles glistening with sweat in the practice yards or the rest of him swimming in the heated pools. She takes a deep breath to still her rapid heartbeat. Unthinkingly, Sansa reaches over and grabs Jon's hand across the table. He startles at the motion and makes to pull back. In response, Sansa tightens her grip and runs her thumb carefully across the knuckles of his hand.

"This is the best way to keep the lords happy and preserve the North's freedom, Jon." Sansa's voice softens and she squeezes his hand once. "It's the best way to protect our people. What if there's a peasant rebellion and the dragons become players in quelling it? Or even something less nefarious - Dany could visit the North and her dragons could wreck a flock or hurt a child. Drogon ate a child, once, a little girl."

Jon's brow furrows. "How do you know about that?"

"Dany told me." Sansa leans back. "I know its displeasing to think about -"

" _Dany_?" Jon pulls back with a harsh yank and stands up from his place on the other side of her worktable. "A week ago, you wanted to depose her. Now you're on a first name basis and trading stories of your pasts? What's gotten into you, Sansa?"

"Things changed. I changed." Sansa bites her lip and released it, eyes alighting on Jon's tormented face. This is the first time since her conversation with Dany that the pair of them could talk without anyone else nearby. Even Arya has disappeared, likely canoodling with her newfound friend from the forges. While she has not recently spoken with Jon, Sansa has spoken plenty with Dany. They've sat together at meals, spoken quietly in Sansa's solar, and even sat up together, giggling like little girls well into the night.  _How can I explain all this to Jon_?

Sansa thinks of Dany's bright hair, how soft it is beneath her hands whenever the queen lets Sansa use her head to practice intricate Northern braids, in a way Arya never would. And the subtle, distant look in her eye when she describes her past lovers, to convince Sansa that not all men are like Ramsay Bolton and Littlefinger and Joffrey. Her breath hitches as she remembers the queen's gentle touch against her skin when they both fell asleep only the night before, curled around one another instead of sleeping separately. Sansa had apologized profusely the next morning, her hair bedraggled as she stumbled away from Dany's bed, but the queen had laughed and helped Sansa fix her appearance before she went out for her daily inspection of the Northern troops' morning routines.

"Are you even listening to me?" Jon says, startling Sansa from her reverie.

“I’m sorry, Jon. What were you saying?”

“That you’re my sister, even if not by blood.” He sighs and runs a hand across his face. “Father would kill me for even thinking these things. Gods protect me if _your_ mother knew.”

“Mother would be pleased.” Sansa says, drily. In fact, Catelyn Stark would have many mixed feelings about this arrangement, especially the truth of Jon’s parentage that had brought so much hurt and sadness to the Starks’ marriage. “You know she always wanted me to be a queen. Since I can’t very well marry Daenerys, this is the next best thing.”

“But why not marry me to some other Northern girl? Alys Karstark is of age and Lyanna Mormont will be soon enough.” Jon protests.

Sansa had considered these proposals and shares her ready response with Jon. “They both have their own lands and do not represent the whole of the North. Only I do.”

Jon turns his back to her and stares out the window at the snowflakes fluttering down through the darkness beyond. Even without looking at him, she knows the face he makes, dark and brooding and nearly a scowl.

She tilts her head. “If the idea of marrying me detests you so, we could make the same offer to Arya. No one can deny she is your preferred sister. I wouldn’t be offended.” Even as she says it, her stomach tightens in a knot.

“She would refuse.”

“We could at least ask.”

Jon pivots. His eyes meet her unwavering gaze with his own gentle and undemanding one. “Do you really want this?”

Sansa nods and rise from her table. “Would it be so bad to love each other?”

Timidly, she approaches him and steps close enough that she can feel his sudden breath against her cheeks. Struck by a sudden thought, Sansa leans in and presses her lips to his own.

She’s kissed many men in her lifetime, but this is the first time she chose to do so. Joffrey, Tyrion, the Hound, Littlefinger, Marillion, Robin, Ramsay – these men forced their harsh affections on her by right and rule. She still seizes up in the night and wakes in a sweat, cowering at the memory of Ramsey’s bloody grip against her arms and his fist pummeling into her breast while he thrust inside her.

But this is a gentler thing. Jon stiffens, then relaxes into the embrace. His hands fall to her hips and pulls her flush against him, a connection so tight it feels natural that their bodies would fit together. Jon kisses her soft and slow, not forcing her beyond her own comfort. With the smoothest touch, he pushes her hair behind her ear and cups her cheek in his hand.

Breathlessly, he pulls away and rests their foreheads together. “Sansa – ”

Sansa purses her lips, already missing the taste of him. Her cheeks flush and she tries to bury these horrible thoughts, but she wants more of him, more of the gentleness she thought her husband would show her, so different than all she’s had before.

“Yes?”

“You’re my _sister_.”

“And Targaryens marry their sisters all the time.” Sansa grasps the front of his jerkin. “Our people need this Jon. However much this arrangement may displease us – and know that while I agreed to this idea, it is not what I would have wanted – we must proceed to protect the North in perpetuity from any enemy, including ourselves. We are direwolves and they are our pack. There is no lion pride or rose thorn to protect them. Only us.”

“Only us.”

“Like Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys.” Sansa said. They both used to cry at the beauty of those stories when they were young, of a brother loving and protecting his sister.

Jon startles her by kissing her again, a soft touch like a snowflake melting against her lips. She leans into him, pulling at his jerkin and falling for the heat of him. His kiss becomes more urgent, hungrier, until he pulls away like he can’t stand her anymore. Jon’s face is grave, but he says the words she needs to hear:

“I’ll marry you. For the North and for us all.”

 


	5. DANY II, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding day arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got really long so I'll be posting part II - the actual wedding ceremony - in the next few days.

Sansa looks every inch a queen.

The seamstresses did not have the cloth to make a lavish wedding dress, so Sansa stands radiant in one of Dany’s gowns instead. Her hair burns against the white fur like a wall of fire on a field of snow. The embellishments on the back, sewn by Sansa’s own hand, wrap like the scales of a dragon.

Dany smooths her hands over her own skirts, a Targaryen red dress with a black fur sheath draped over it. Although she wears the crown, she feels imbalanced before such startling beauty. She takes a deep breath and steps into the Lady’s chamber.

Around her, Sansa’s maids come to an instant stop and fall into deep curtsies. Sansa turns back from the mirror, and Dany gasps in astonishment and envy. The dragon scales on her back carefully turn into the figure of two Stark direwolves howling at the front of her skirts.

Dany bites her lower lip, white teeth bright against her red lip. “Lady Sansa, you look . . .”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Sansa chirps and waves her hands at the maids. “Agatha, Alysanne, you may leave us.”

They set down the pins and rouge brushes in their hands and scurry out. Sansa and Dany are at last alone. Dany goes over to the vanity before Sansa and lifts up the comb. She steps behind the Lady of Winterfell and runs the comb through her hair. Quietly, she braids back Sansa’s hair into a crown of copper and sets the glittering diamond pins within it until there is a crown of snowflakes atop her head. Dany steps back and observes what she has completed and breaths in another deep breath of air.

“Ravishing.” Dany says when she has finally caught her breath. “I wanted to say you look ravishing. Jon will want to get you out of that dress the moment he sees you walk into the godswood.”

Her stomach tightens. Jon will be inside Sansa tonight, will cup those supple breasts between his calloused hands, tweak her nipples and make her moan . . . Dany blinks rapidly to pull herself out of her fervor and tries to will away her brightly burning cheeks. This is her idea, she cannot be jealous of another woman just because she suggested Sansa marry her lover. _Although, truth be told, I’m not sure which of them I’m jealous of._

“Thank you, Dany.” Sansa takes Dany’s hands in hers, so soft and gentle compared to Jon’s or Drogo’s. Dany wants to stop these thoughts, but seeing Sansa here, in this gown, her hair gleaming down her head like burnished copper and her eyes like pools of crystalline water, it is impossible to not think of her like this.

“How are you feeling? The guests have begun heading outside.”

Sansa smiles, but it’s a thin line that doesn’t show her teeth. “I’m feeling well.”

Dany squeezes Sansa’s hand. “You can be truthful with me.”

Sansa’s smile fades and even her eyes lose their sparkle for a moment. She steps away from Dany, her skirts swishing softly around her feet. Sansa steps towards the dark window, staring out with her back to Dany. “It’s been weeks and still no light. I’m worried for our people, but grateful for this bargain you and I have made. There are many things that keep me up at night, but the last few days, well . . .

“Are you sure he’ll be gentle?” Sansa’s shoulders stiffen as if responding to a phantom force. She sets a hand along the ledge, fingers curled in an elegant arch. Dany comes behind her and gently sets her own hand over Sansa’s. Her cheeks warm, recalling of the hardness of Jon nestled between her thighs and the beauty of his grunting as he peaked and brought her to her own pleasure.

“He was loving with me.” Dany looks up at the Northern beauty, marveling at her height and the concern in her eyes. Dany cups Sansa’s cheek in her free hand and brushes her thumb across the softness besides her full red lips.

Sansa smiles sadly. “I wanted love, once. That seems so impractical after all we’ve lived through, doesn’t it? What is loving even like, next to the rough desires of most men? Can love be kind and intense at the same time?”

“It’s kindness and warmth, caring and compassion. It’s gentleness and softness from a rough hand on her skin.”

“Can I have that, with a husband who loves another woman deeply?” Sansa asks. “That’s why I was so concerned about you, you know. I though his love for your beauty had broken his logic and reason. But there’s a good heart in you, Daenerys.”

“Thank you, Sansa. Jon will love you in his own way, I am sure.”

“I’m not sure his love is what I want.” Sansa’s gaze on Dany intensifies. Then, Sansa closes her eyes and Dany may imagine that the other woman leans into the warm touch of Dany’s palm.

She is not sure what drives her, but Dany rises onto her toes and kisses her. Sansa’s lips are soft and warm and welcoming, and she shivers against Dany at the sudden contact, but leans in all the same. Dany kisses her softly, gently, genuinely wanting to give Sansa all the love and sweetness that no man has been able to give her yet.

Sansa smells sweet, like lavender and lemon. After a moment of light lover’s kisses, soft as snowflakes, Sansa's hands reach for Dany's hips and holds their bodies together. She grows greedy and desperate. She wraps one hand in Dany's hair and nips at her bottom lip, eliciting a deep moan from the back of Dany's throat. Dany wants more, needs more, of this woman.

Dany strokes the side of Sansa's face and runs her hand down until she grips Sansa's ass, clutching it through the thick material. Their hips rock together, stirring a lovely warmth between Dany’s thighs. The Lady of Winterfell, soon to be Queen in the North, moans against the Dragon Queen’s touch before her eyes snap open at the sounds she makes.

Sansa pulls away and glances at Dany, her eyes wide. Her breath is fast and hot on Dany's face, tickling her cheeks and driving her mad as a Targaryen king. "I'm sorry, I don't know what overcame me . . ."

"I'm the one who started it, dear one." Dany murmurs. "I only wanted to show you what intense loving can be."

She strokes Sansa’s cheek again, wanting to drown in those beautiful eyes.

“Sansa?” Arya Stark’s voice startles them both out of their deep gaze. “Are you ready?”

Dany steps back quickly, not wanting Arya to catch onto the moment if she looks too hard. She quickly wipes the back of her hand across her lips, burying the evidence of Sansa’s lipstain on her mouth. “I’m sure there is no more beautiful woman in all of Westeros.”

Sansa’s cheeks burn red as roses and her voice is low, quiet enough that Arya cannot hear. “Only you, Daenerys.”

Sansa runs a hand across her dress, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. Arya’s eyes flicker between the two women, but she says nothing about what she may or may not have seen. Instead, Arya visibly swallows before stepping towards them both. “Are you sure you’re both want this? I still don’t know how you convinced Jon to agree.”

“It’s for the future of the North.” Sansa says, simply. Her eyes linger on Dany, suddenly deep and sad. She turns to Arya. “Shall we?”

Arya offers her arm and Sansa wraps a soft gloved hand on Arya’s elbow.

“Good luck, my lady.” Dany smiles. “Or shall I say my queen?”

Sansa nods. “Soon you shall, my queen.”

Dany leaves the room to join the throngs of Northern and Vale lords and smallfolk heading for the godswood. Dany looks up to the sky as they cross the castle’s primary courtyard. Perhaps her head is still swimming with visions of Sansa’s brightly burning hair, but she swears the sky is turning orange. Dany shakes her head and moves along.

She has only been in the godswood once before, walking with Sansa in the days after she made her first proposal of this wedding. She had been offered a place of honor in the front row, as both a queen and aunt to the groom, but she decides to stand with Missandei in the rear of the crowds. The people deserve to see their new queen and Dany is not sure how she will react to seeing the man she loves and the woman she cares for in each other’s loving embrace.

Missandei sees her queen and offers her a hand, squeezing gently. So much tragedy has brought them only closer. Missandei is lost without Grey Worm, but still strong and fierce. Lacking his presence, she has spoken more at council meetings and fought back against lords who recommend that they do not need to help the south defeat Cersei.

Soon, the crowd is fully gathered and suspiciously silent. Their faces are illuminated and tossed in shadow by lanterns hung from the branches of dark trees and torches pressed into the thick banks of snow. The godswood in winter is a gloomy place for a wedding, so different from the beachside where Dany married Drogo, or even the temple where she bound herself to Hizdhar. Steam rises from the hot pools, warming the crowd, though some still shiver.

She wonders after the rituals to come. Dany had never learned the customs of Northern weddings before the Old Gods and only heard those of the Faith of the Seven. Because those gathered here follow the Old Gods and the New, the rites will be combined. Even a priestess of R’hllor will speak to the Lord of Light, to involve any who may want a stake in this union.

A group of men from the Brotherhood without Banners begin to play music, lute and pipes and drum. They seek to make the environment more bawdy, and yet these songs are somber. Dany notes. They play rites from the Lord of Light, songs that few of the people know, and so only a few join in and song.

Jon will arrive shortly, and then she will have to still the beating in her heart and the fluttering between her legs, to watch this miserable thing occur.


	6. DANY II, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany watches a wedding between her lover and her friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wait. TBH, this chapter can be skipped, but I wanted to write some angst and the messiness of combining three religions into one marriage ceremony, so this was born.

The Band of the Brotherhood stops its music as Jon appears in the opening of the clearing. With a deep breath, he stalks up the path between the two halves of the crowd to stand before the weirwood hearttree, his face blank as stone.

He does not spare a glance towards Dany, but keeps his eyes firmly set upon the weirwood. Before it burns a bright bonfire for the Lord of Light and behind that stands a makeshift altar to the Seven, decorated with seven crude statutes of the gods and tall burning candles. Walking side-by-side comes a Septon of the Faith, a fat old man in service to one of the Lords of the Vale, and a red woman in her bright robes, who followed Dany all the way from Essos.

Jon stands beneath the hearttree handsomely in black and grey, his doublet patterned like dragonscales with deep scarlet threading. The red priestess in her red robes steps forward to begin the incantations to the Lord of Light.

“R’hllor,” The red priestess sings, raising her arms to the sky and turning her back to the hearttree. “you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins. Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night, yours the light that drove away the darkness of everlasting winter.”

“All praise R’hllor, the Lord of Light.” The chanting guests were few but feverous in their devotion.

 “The night is dark and filled with terrors,” She sings, louder now. “Alone we are born and alone we die, but as we walk through this black vale we draw strength from one another, and from you, our mighty lord. Two come forth today to join their lives, so they may face this world’s darkness together. Fill their hearts with fire, my lord, so they may walk your shining path hand in hand forever.”

“Lord of Light, protect us,” cried the faithful. “Lord of Light, bless your children.”

The Septon fingers his seven-sided crystal worriedly, although Dany notes a satisfied smile at the fewness of the Lord of Light’s supporters. Again, the priestess raises her hands. “Oh, Lord of Light, we thank you, for dear Daenerys, by your grace Queen of the South. Oh, Lord of Light, we thank you, for dear Sansa, by your grace Queen of the North. Guide them and defend them, R’hllor, these heroes who slayed the Night King. Protect these queens from the treacheries of evil men and grant them strength to smite the further servants of the dark, the false queen of House Lannister.”

“Grant them strength. Grant them courage. Grant them wisdom.”

“We thank you for the sun that warms us,” chants the faithful and their priestess. True, the sky is turning redder now, like a forest fire burning on the horizon. “We thank you for the stars that watch over us in the black of night. We thank you for our hearths and for our torches that keep the savage dark at bay. We thank you for our bright spirits, the fires in our loins and in our hearts.”

And finally, the priestess says, “Let them come forth, who would be joined.”

Jon turns to watch his bride approach, his eyes wide as he takes in the rapture of her unearthly beauty.

“Who comes before the Gods this day?” Jon calls, joined by the priestess and the Septon, their voices stronger together.

Finally, Sansa steps into the clearing from the walkway to Winterfell. Over her shoulders drapes the maiden's cloak of House Stark, grey and white and sewn with seven direwolves playing in a snow bank – one for each member of her family. She glances sideways and catches Dany’s eyes. Her hands are folded in the sides of her gown, but Dany can tell that they shake from nervous energy. Dany smiles to encourage her, and Sansa steps into the pathway.

Dany looks up the aisle to take in Jon. His entire face radiates like the sun's glow to see Sansa's divine beauty. When he licks his bottom lip and tries to correct his open mouthed stare, Dany wonders if he does it on purpose or if it is just an instinctual action, this work of a man tamed by that woman of splendor.

At Sansa’s side, Arya says her part, standing in place for the belated Lord Stark. “Sansa of House Stark, come here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She come to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“I do.” Jon waits until Sansa is halfway up the half before responding with his words, carefully chosen, fall heavy on everyone’s ears. “Jon of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Heir to Queen Daenerys, long may she reign!”

The world stands still. Arya says her words first, loudly and clearly, “Long may she reign!”

The Dothraki say it and the Vale lords say it, and finally the Northern Lords say it. She does not see a single man or woman of the freefolk speak, but this does not concern her now. They are not of Westeros in the way the others are.

For the rest of his life, whenever he is introduced, Jon will be named the Prince of Dragonstone and Heir of Queen Daenerys, until his own child can assume the title. In this way, every lord will understand that Jon is her heir and will not support an attempt to take her throne. It was a small thing, but it came at Sansa’s suggestion to emphasize the political decisions of these ruling families. Jon turns to look at his sisters. "I claim her. Who gives her?"

“Arya of House Stark, who is both sister and heir to Queen Sansa.” Arya removed the maiden’s cloak from Sansa’s shoulders. It pools in her arms as she steps back to stand besides Bran in his chair. Sansa moves to stand at Jon’s side.

A group of young squires and pages from the Vale raises up their voice in the wedding song of the Faith, the words and tune happier and warmer than cold clearing calls for.

The Septon wraps a ribbon seven times around the couple’s joined hands. Each time he winds it, he names a face of the Seven. “Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, Stranger. Bless this union. May the pair find love and comfort in each other. Bless this realm. May Queen Sansa and King Jon rule justly over their people. Bless this pair. May they be fruitful and multiply.”

 “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…” Together, the bride and groom recites the vows of the Seven, in whose sight they are now wedded, their eyes interlocked deeply like a pair of well-acquainted lovers. “I am yours and you are mine from this day until the end of my days, from this day until my last day.”

When he is done,the red priestess begins a song of praise, but the chorus of voices joined was not enough to fill the glade as the choir of the seven had.Soon enough, she ends the chanting and raises her hands to ask, “Jon, will you share your fire with Sansa, and warm her when the night is dark and full of terrors?”

“I swear it.” Jon says, voice strong even though is face is grim as if he stands at his own funeral and not his wedding. The priestess asks the same questions of Sansa, who echoes the traditional response.

“Then come to me and be as one.” She beckons them forward, eyes shining with fire and fervor. Sansa takes Jon by the hand, and side by side they leap through the tall flames. With a booming voice, the priestess cries, “Two went into the flames and one emerges. What fire joins none may put asunder.”

“What fire joins, none may put asunder,” the crowd echoes, from Daenerys and the R’hollorites and even a few of Westerosi. Jon rises with a startled look upon his face, a married man before the Lord of Light. The Lord’s rites finished, the Septon approaches on the opposite side to stand before the altar to his Seven.

Sansa joins Jon as he tenderly helps her to her feet, the bonfire illuminating both their faces with warm orange light and outlining them as the only spot of brightness against the darkened night. Dany catches her breath and muffles a sudden, anxious sob. _Has there ever been a couple more beautiful than these two will be_? At her side, Missandei tightens her grip on Dany’s hand.

“Khaleesi, it is almost over.” She whispers in Dothraki, so that none of those nearby can understand her words. Dany forces down the cries in her throat and chest, begging for a release she can never getter.

Soon enough, Jon and Sansa make the seven vows, the Septon invokes the seven blessings, and the pair exchanges the seven promises. The choir of boys from the Vale sang the wedding song before the Septon makes the challenge, “Does any man before us now challenge the truth of this union between Jon of House Targaryen and Sansa of House Stark? Speak now or forever hold your peace and never shall their souls be party.”

A surge of braveness races through Dany’s veins, spurring her to speak her truth, that she loves Jon and cannot bear to see him with Sansa. But she will not ruin this, the marriage to bind her throne and answer the Northern question.

And then it is finally time for the exchanging of cloaks.

The Septon steps forward now to lead his part. “You may now cloak the bride and take her under your protection before the eyes of men and the gods.”

Arya hands the folded bride’s cloak to Jon. It is not elaborate as Sansa’s maiden’s cloak, simple black patterned with red thread and a black fur in the Stark style, but the colors are sufficiently Targaryen to represent him and the pronouncement of his legitimacy by Dany.

He unfurls it with a simple shake and drapes the black-and-red across Sansa’s shoulders. Jon fastens the bride’s cloak tenderly at her throat, bringing her officially under his protection before the Seven. Silence falls as the crowd observes them, and the air fills with the quiet singing of the R’hollorites.

Arya asks, “Queen Sansa of House Stark, do you take this man?”

Sansa nods firmly and smiles, finally happy as a bride should be. “I take this man.” 

“Prince Jon of House Targaryen, do you take this woman?”

Jon’s voice is terse as he speaks. “I take this woman.”

Sansa sets her hand in Jon’s and together they kneel before the hearttree and bow their heads in submission to the carved faces embedded in the weirwood. The Northerners in the crowd kneel as well, followed by the Vale and the Dothraki until everyone rests with knees in the snow, praying silently to their own gods.

The quick rites of the North were done, but still the ceremony continued.

The Septon raises his hands in prayer and begins his sermon,“We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Sansa says the words, strong and clear so all those gathered in the clearing can hear her, although Dany swears Sansa’s eyes dash away to look back at the Targaryen Queen, not King. “With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my husband.”

 _Sansa will never have a lord again_ , Dany knows, b _ecause I have protected her with a kingdom of her own_.

“With this kiss I pledge my love and. . .” Jon says, his voice faltering. Sansa grabs his hands in her own and meets his eyes with that beautiful, steady gaze that lets him know he is all she cares about in that moment. He breaths deeply and finishes, his words confident, “and take you for my queen and my wife.”

Jon kisses her lightly on the lips. It is the briefest second, but to Dany it feels like a lifetime. The words echo in her head, _my queen_ , and the way he would call her that while buried inside her and bringing her to ecstasy. There is none of the passion that Dany has had from either of them. She blinks back tears, not sure if she is sad that they are together or that Sansa and Jon both seem miserable.

Jon looks into Sansa’s eyes and his own seem to soften. For the first time in days, he smiles as he says, “I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

“I am his and he is mine.” Sansa repeats. “From this day, until the end of my days.”

The Septon declares, “Let it be known Queen Sansa of House Stark and King Jon of House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of fods and men, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

Finally, husband picked up wife, the last bit of the Northern rites, and carried her down the path. He would carry her all the way to the Great Hall, for feasting and drinking, and stay by her side until their bedding only hours from now.

“A better kiss, my lord!” Someone shouts from the audience – a lord of the Vale? A rousing of cheers comes up and Dany can see the faint flicker of worry across Sansa’s face as her walls prepare to break. Jon’s face is stern but as the chorus of shouts continues, he does what he must.

The Septon raises his seven-sided crystal, catching the faint light in the sky.  Sansa raises a steady hand to cup Jon's cheek and strokes his beard with her thumb. As Jon lifts her in his arms and leans down to press his lips more firmly to Sansa’s mouth, the sun finally rises and the pair are tossed in the light of the Seven’s rainbow. 

All eyes are on them, which means no one but Missandei notices as the Dragon Queen ducks her head to hide her tears as she runs from the godswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the long-awaited bedding!


	7. JON II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa consummate their union.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany is not in this chapter; it is all Jonsa smut. She'll be in the text one though, I promise. Please skip if this isn't your thing or at least don't leave rude comments.

 

 

Jon is not sure what to make of the fact that Sansa is already wet beneath her skirts. When his fingers touch her quim for the first time, she mewls with excitement and bucks her hips up to meet him.

“Is this alright?” Jon asks, tentatively stroking the warm wetness between her legs.

His sister-cousin-wife tosses her mane of red hair back against the fresh pillows of the great, wide bed in the Lord’s chamber, quivering beneath him, and sighs a hearty, “Yes, Jon, gods, _yes_.”

They are both drunk, on wine and sadness and joy, but the music of her bliss brings him to a new kind of stupor.

With the coming of the light, the feast grew rowdier than anyone anticipated. The last of the deer and sows roasted on spits in the kitchens and Dany called for the flasks of their best Dornish wine to be opened. The liquor and beer ran freely, and when the time came a drunken excitement of men and women carried the groom and bride to their chambers. Thankfully, the guests knew the halls were too cold and frozen by winter’s winds to remove much of their clothing, and the southern queen threatened to burn any man who ruined Lady Stark’s carefully embroidered dress.

So Sansa stood before Jon in most of her wedding gown, having lost the bride’s cloak in the hall, her collar ripped to reveal mere inches of her quivering bosom. Neither of the pair where a maid in the moment, but only Sansa had been through a wedding night – _two of them_ , he reminded himself.

Without speaking, she turned her back to him and undid the ties and pins, struggling until Jon took over. Sansa stepped out of her dress and smallclothes and sat on the bed, waiting for her husband. She shivered, from cold and possibly fear, and Jon came to her, wanting to relax her for the thing to come in the only way he knew how.

And that was how he made it here, two fingers between his former sister’s thighs, discovering her already wet and ready for him. His cock pulses in his breeches as Sansa moves against him, hands reaching to pull his tunic and shirt off. When he is half-disrobed, Jon strokes her again and softly pushes in deeper than before. Sansa squeezes around him, and finally he looks up to take her in.

Her eyes are closed to him, lost in the pleasure of his gentle touch, and she bites her lip to hold back her cries. Jon prides himself knowing that he has done this to every woman he has bedded, even her. His gaze moves down from her face, to the large, supple breasts heaving with her heavy breasts. Jon raises a hand to caress one and squeezes, the soft flesh spilling over his palm.

Continuing his finger strokes in a delicate rhythm, Jon leans in and licks around the nipple of the other breast, then nips it gently. Sansa gasps and bites her lips again.

Jon stops in confusion. Sansa’s eyes snap open and stare down into his own. She cups his cheeks in both her hands. “Is – is everything alright? Have I done something wrong?”

“You can speak noises, Sansa. There is no shame in it.” Jon tells her.

“It’s habit.” She chatters nervously. “Ramsay liked to hear me scream. I liked to not let him.”

“Well it will please me to hear you.” He murmurs and takes her hand in his. “But only if you want to let me. We do not need to do this, at least not tonight, if you are not ready.”

“I . . .” Sansa blushes furiously, her face the color of Targayen banners. Jon notices the way her thighs close tightly together and rub like a teenage boy, agitated from a dream of a woman. “I want to. Tonight, that is. And later, to . . . we need a babe.”

 _Of course_. Jon sighs, not noticing the way Sansa’s face falls for a moment. The bargain with Daenerys is only secure when they provide her with an heir, a Targaryen heir. And the North is only secure when they have at least one heir of their own. “I will do my duty then, and give you a babe. But I will give you joy, too, if you will let me.”

“I’d like that.”

Jon resumes his earlier position, fingers filling her and coaxing her to completion. He finds her breast again and blows cool air across it.

“Oh!” Her hand wraps in his hair and holds him to her as he kisses and nips at her nipple, letting the other breast fill his hand as he kneads it. Jon holds himself to her, hoping he can give Sansa a reason to love him.

And finally, she comes undone beneath him. She dissolves like salt in the hot springs, and when he presses a finger to her closed lips, she opens her mouth and mewls and moans, she _sings_ his name, he swears, and it is enough to make him shatter even without being inside her.

Sansa breaths heavily as she recovers and runs a hand across the dark hair matted to her forehead. She looks at him and smiles shyly, like a bride on her first wedding day.

“Thank you.” Sansa sets her hands against his chest, running them over his scars until they find the lacings on his breeches. “I’m ready. For you.”

The two of them stumble through the rest, and later he won’t remember quite how he got out of his restraints. But Sansa giggles when she seems his cock for the first time, giddy and excited, and he isn’t sure what to make of that until she reaches out and strokes him.

His groan comes unbidden, deep and desperate in the back of his throat. “Sansa, I –” He groans again, eyes fluttering shut, as she increases the pressure and strokes again. “I’ll finish before we start.”

Sansa wraps her arms around his neck. “Then let’s start.”

Jon adjusts and positions himself. “You’re sure?”

Sansa nods, a smile on her lips. Jon wants to kiss her, but it feels to close, too intimate, until she reaches up and presses their lips together.

He thrusts in partways, still waiting for her to refuse him. With a low moan, Sansa rakes her hands across his back, and rubs her fingers in circles around the cords of muscle in his lower back. “More, _please_.”

He sinks his hips down and fills her with all of him. This time they moan as one. As he moves himself for another thrust, Sansa raises one knee to hook it round his back. The new angle is everything and more, and Jon groans as he snaps his hips to hers.

He sets a pace, slow and excruciating, but he wants this pleasure to last. Sansa moans again, a beautiful sound he will never tire of. “ _Jon_ , _Jon_ , _Jon_.”

Jon is lost in her, in the motions between them, but it is over too soon. He feels the coil in his stomach coming undone and loses the rhythm, snapping his hips in shallow motions, until he climaxes. With a final, deep moan, Jon sinks fully into her, buried to the hilt, as he fills Sansa with his seed.

Her hands rub circles on his back, comforting and wonderful, his head cushioned in the softness of her hair. Jon kisses her shoulder and brushes her hair aside, kissing her again on the neck, ear, jaw,  cheek, mouth.

“You beautiful, wicked minx.” He whispers as he rolls off her. “My lady.”

“ _Queen_.” She sighs besides him. “Is it always this wonderful?”

“We can make it so, if that’s what you want.” Jon promises. “It doesn’t always need to be blood and horror. There’s joy to beddings, too.”

Silence lingers, them both laying on the bed and a cool draft sweeps the room. Jon glances at Sansa, eyes closed and drifting off on the shores of sleep. He peels back the blankets and furs and pulls it over them both. Softly, he asks, “Is that something you would want?”

“It is.” Sansa cozies in against the side of his chest and sets her hand upon him. For the first time since she proposed this terrible, messy marriage, Jon thinks they may be able to build a bit of happiness together.


	8. DANY III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany gets sick and makes plans to defeat her enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been stuck on Dany's POV here for a bit; hopefully I've done her justice.

Light pouring in through the leadened windows wakes Daenerys Targaryen the morning after her heir’s wedding to his sister-cousin. _Light_. She sits with a jolt, realizing that the sun has risen. She knew it came up the night - _day?_ \- before, during the wedding ceremony beneath the heart tree, but she hadn’t realized it was truly up. Part of her thought that the sun had only risen to mock her, illuminating the two she loves best besides her children, and that it would return to the ground on the other side of the horizon after their coupling was done.

Dany rises from her bed, throwing back her heavy covers and stalking over to the window. She stares at the glimmering sunlight, its rays glistening off the thick expanse of fresh-fallen snow. In the distance, Drogon and Rhaegal raise their heads and dance and fly across the snow, sunlight throwing their dazzling colors across the sky as they frolic and play.

Her children in the snow is maybe the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, except for Sansa Stark’s smile. Dany blushes like mad at her thoughts and stares down again. She wraps her hands around her stomach, clutching it tightly. She woke in the night - the true night - to punishing nausea in her stomach and emptied it into her chamber pot. Those pains come again, everything is too bright and too beautiful to bear, but she is determined not to let it out, until -

Dragon roars and the sound sees Dany running across the room and heaving, anything left from the feast before joining her other vomit in the bowl. Her head aches as she pours her stomach out and she pulls away with a heavy sigh. She burrows beneath her covers and refuses to come out.

Varys and Tyrion find her there and give a short report of new developments they noticed among the lords and words they have heard whispered in the halls. She sends them off to the wedding breakfast without her and asks them to send Missandei to her in the afternoon. Dany flickers in and out of sleep, ignoring the headache and stomachache that plagues her. She wonders what Jon will think, if he will miss her at his side like she has been for every meal, if he will think she stays away from rage or jealousy or insecurity.

But then she imagines Sansa laughing gaily at his side, a gentle hand placed upon his elbow, a soft word whispered against the shell of her ear. Next to that lady’s gentle, soft grace and bright Riverland beauty, what man would miss Daenerys? He knows she is barren and that even now Sansa could be carrying his legitimate child. His heir. Daenerys is fiery and fierce and ethereal, not simple and joyful like her. With this wretched thoughts scampering through her mind, she buries herself even deeper in her pillows and blankets and furs and hopes everyone will forget her in her displeasure and misery and sickness.

“Your grace, can I have a moment?” Arya Stark is in her door, her shadow cast long by the flickering torchlight in the hall behind her. “I know you are unwell, but I do not believe this can wait.”

“Come in.” Dany says, pushing herself up on the stack of pillows behind her. Arya lets the door close behind her and comes to Dany’s bedside. She hands the queen a steaming mug of tea, and Dany tentatively takes a sip. _Mint and chamomile_. She smiles as the warmth rolls over her face and down her throat. Maybe the tea can soothe her stomach sickness. “Please, sit, Lady Arya. And thank you, for the tea. This is just what I needed, I think.”

Arya perches on the edge of Dany’s bedside. “It was Sansa’s idea that I bring it. She’s the one you should thank. And please, just Arya is fine.”

“Alright.” Dany takes another, deeper sip of her tea. She tries not to smile too hard, to think that Sansa sent this gift to her. Jon is a capable lover, as Dany can attest, and yet Sansa is still thinking of _her_ , even the morning after her wedding and first happy coupling. “So, just Arya, what brings you to my dark chambers? Shouldn’t you be enjoying the morning after breakfast at your sister’s wedding?”

“Perhaps I should be.” Arya shrugs. “But I wanted to make a proposal to you, about how to take care of Cersei.”

“And what’s that?” Dany feels another angry wave in her stomach and takes a sip of the calming tea to keep it down. She’s already vomited three times this morning and she isn’t sure there’s anything left to empty from her belly. Dany doesn’t want to think of what it is, but yet she still knows its her jealousy of Jon, of Sansa, and the unfairness of this whole situation, that the two people she wants - the only people she wants - are now promised to each other and both too duty-bound to ever look her way with loving eyes again.

Arya interrupts Dany’s thoughts with her proposal. “Let me kill her.”

“You?”

“This war will be over in a matter of minutes, rather than days of negotiations or battle.” Arya explains. “And before she dies, Cersei will hand over the city to you. The only life lost will be hers, not thousands of innocents.”

She takes Arya’s hand. “Your siblings would never forgive me if I authorized sending you into a war zone.” She has already lost Jon and Sansa’s love. She cannot take losing their friendship, too.

“I have certain . . . skills that will let me get past her guards undetected.”

Dany raises a skeptical eyebrow. “What are these skills, pray tell?”

“I know the tunnels beneath King’s Landing and through Maegor’s Holdfast. I played in them, when I was a child living there.” Arya swallows. “And I know how to use the face of another person and pretend to be them.”

“Like a faceless man? Can you truly?”

Arya nods. “I trained with them, for a time.”

Dany’s mind fills with wonder at the thought and she observes Arya in a different light. This skill will make her more useful than anything else before the queen at this moment. She could send a small contingent of soldiers, no more than a dozen, to help Arya, and the young woman could end the true war before it is begun. She ponders it, turns the prospective plan over in her mind, searching for angles and wrongness and what it could mean for their future. “Mayhaps. I will think on this a little while longer, when I am not feeling so unwell, and when I can see what Sansa and Jon think.”

“Thank you, you grace.”

“Please, call me Daenerys when it is just us. Everyone else in your family does already.” Dany smiles, thinking of the way her name sounds on Jon and Sansa’s lips. “And we are family of a kind now, wouldn’t you say?”

“I guess we are.”

Arya excuses herself and Dany finishes her tea before falling back asleep. She dreams restlessly, of dragons and dragon eggs and wolves running through a forest. When she awakes again, it is with Missandei at her side, stroking a damp, cool cloth against her forehead. “I didn’t realize you were so unwell. I would have come sooner, had I know.”

“The sweat is new.” Dany murmurs. She doesn’t know if she’s ever sweated before, to be true. Even in the Dothraki sea and on the walk through the Red Waste, she does not remember feeling such sticky salt against her skin. “How are you faring?”

“Do not worry after me, not when you yourself are in such a circumstance. But I am doing better. Or as better as I can be.” Missandei sets the cloth aside and offers Dany another mug of tea and a bread roll. She settles in the chair before her hearth, now filled with a roaring fire, and sips and nibbles on the snack. She feels better, like she is able to hold it down, and leans her head back against the chair.

Looking across at Missandei, she asks, “so, how was the morning’s meal?”

“Some of the soldiers from the Vale are jugglers, so they put on a little show. It was amusing to watch.” Missandei says. “And Jon and Sansa seem besotted, already.”

Dany sighs. She knows she should be happy for them, and she is. But still . . . She sets her hand upon her belly in a mindless motion, staring into the flames and wondering when her pains and sadness will be gone so she can turn south in truth and win her throne.

“Do you think you could be with my child, my queen?” Missandei suggests after a brief hesitation, her voice soft as the snow falling outside. “Your breasts are larger than before, and this sickness does not give you a fever.” She reaches forward and tenderly brushes her hand across the front of Dany’s shift. Dany gasps at the mere hint of touch. She remembers when she was pregnant with Rhaego, how sensitive her breasts had grown . . .

“That’s impossible.” Dany says. “I’ve told you the Magi’s curse, yes? She rendered me barren with her words.”

“I do not think so, Daenerys.” Missandei tilts her head. “Who would be the father?”

“Jon.” Dany says, pain shooting through her even at the thought. “If what you say is true, I’ll give him a bastard. The gift he would least want in this entire world.” She leans against the taller woman, the tears coming fast and hard as she realizes what she has done, what chaos she has caused. If only she waited to seal her alliance with the North, to offer Sansa her crown. She could have had the North. She could have had _him_. But she’s sold him away, and her friend as a broodmare for Dany’s heirs, when she has herself proven capable of having the child she wants.

 _How to tell him_? Jon would be wracked with guilt, this secret could so much destroy him, because he bedded his sister while another woman carried his child. And bedded her he did. Varys came to her to report on the happy coupling sounds that he overheard, assuring that her heir was on its way to existing. Dany starts as she realizes the sorrowful truth. _I cannot_.

If she were to share this news, this exciting thing that should bring her boundless joy, she would lose the Northern and Arryn lords whose support she has worked so hard to gain, for whom she has already given up so much to receive their support and arms and help. If she does, she may lose her advisors who spoke against proposing the alliance to Sansa, who said it took away too much and gave to little. They would realize she was wrong and they were right and leave her. Would even Jon and Sansa support her, since they could claim her rightful lands as theirs through Jon’s Targaryen blood and his own bonded dragon? Surely he wouldn’t betray her like that, but maybe he would.

Missandei escorts Dany back to her bed and lets her cry in the safety of her arms, without fear of repercussions. She cannot tell him, but she must. Surely he will know when she begins to show, or he will at least be suspect. But even then, she could pretend the babe was someone else’s. Jorah’s, perhaps, or some unknown soldier she bedded before the long night or even after it . . .

 _Hide the truth_ , a part of her whispers. _Hide the truth and you will be_ free _to rule your lands and keep your people safe. Protect your child and all your children_. Oh, but how? This alliance was meant to free them all, not cause more problems. She sniffs and buries her head against Missandei’s comforting bosom., trying not to let her head fill with all the turmoil she feels oncoming.

A wicked, evil thought fills her, and she cannot hold back the accusation now that it fills her. What if Sansa finds out, and tries to end her child’s life? It would mean one less throne for Sansa’s children with Jon, taken by Dany’s _bastard_ , and everything she has heard is that Sansa is much like her own mother, unforgiving of Jon’s own, supposed bastard existence. She shudders to think that Sansa would hurt her child, but she cannot know until it is happened . . .

“I need to go South, immediately. Summon Arya Stark here, and her siblings. Immediately, please.” She shudders in Missandei’s arms, plans forming from all she’s learned on this cruel, long day. “I need to secure my throne so I can secure a safe world for this babe. I will not lose another child. I’ve already lost too many.”

 


	9. JON III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon tries to make Sansa see reason when she objects to the plan to take King's Landing and win the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initiating Phase II of "everyone is miserable before they are happy."

“You can’t seriously agree with her that this is anyway a sensible idea.”

Jon groans and sets his face in his hands, rubbing his temples. Sansa has been deathly silent since they met with Dany and Arya to discuss this new plan to defeat Queen Cersei. In the meeting, she raged against the queen’s suggestions and stormed out like a child throwing a temper tantrum. Jon remained behind to hear the remaining details from Arya’s own voice and came back to this new, shared chamber of theirs hoping for some peace and quiet to think it over.

It appears that he will not get the silence he so desires.

“Are you even listening to me?” Sansa stomps over to stand in front of his writing table and leers down at him. “You really want to put _Arya_ , our baby sister, in Cersei’s path? She could die, we could lose her again, all to kill a woman who could otherwise be defeated with armies - ”

“Armies made of other people’s brothers and sisters.” He glances up at Sansa and takes her shaking hand in his. Jon strokes his thumb gently across her knuckles, and sighs that he ever thought they could change their relationship so quickly because of a drunken bedding. “Their lives would be saved through Arya’s actions.”

He woke with Sansa wrapped in his arms, her hair spread across his face and pillow, smelling sweetly of lavender and lemon. Before the shame of bedding his sister could fill him, his cock had twitched and grown to attention as she had awoken too, pressing her body up flush against him. She rolled over and offered herself to him for a second coupling with light, snowflake kisses all along his neck, chest, and lips.

She woke him fully with her hand on him and he found her wet for him even before he put his hand between her thighs. Their coupling one had been quicker and quieter than the night before, several hard, quick thrusts with his hands at her breasts before he found his release inside her. He had felt more shame afterwards, realizing that he could not blame the alcohol in his veins or the goading of their people like he could for the night before. Jon Snow had fucked his sister and he had liked it. Loved it, even.

But their morning was interrupted by maids bringing hot bathwater, with one tub for them to share, and though he resisted the temptation, it ended with his fingers in her quim and her hand around his cock, pressing hard, bruising kisses against Sansa’s neck until she came with a beautiful, soft squeal.

Their newlywed whispers and giggles had continued through the breakfast feast prepared by the castle’s staff, the bawdy singing and the tumblers from their troupes. Although Dany was absent, he thought it for the best that she not be there. He would not want to tempt her anger or offer her any sadness by seeing him happy with Sansa, although a small part of him is still in disbelief that she suggested their union, would give up their love for Sansa’s queenly visions, would use him as a pawn to further both their goals. Jon had stilled then, wondering if he had meant anything to her at all, and a small part of him whispered in hopes that Dany would come and see them happily together, with Sansa’s kisses peppering his neck and the bruises he gave her on her own the night before. Maybe her jealousy would make Daenerys regret all she had given up between them.

Both those thoughts were lost when Sansa sipped from her mulled cider, and whispered so only he could hear, “your heir could be growing in me even now, _husband_.” He’d kissed her hard before them all, thrilled to think the he would be able to father legitimate sons and daughters on his _wife_.

But that joy had turned to ash soon after. A messenger arrived, summoning them to Dany’s side, and then had come the meeting with the queen and Arya, the planned proposal to send Arya to King’s Landing to kill Cersei. Sansa had raged against them all, so righteous in her bluefire that she could not see the good in their ideas. And her cold, harsh glare had landed on Jon’s face as she left, clearly accusatory that he would take Dany’s side.

He knew her face and all its forms and emotions, and her sad, empty look from when she felt betrayed by his actions or decisions. They’d talked about her questioning him in front of other lords, but to question him in front of Dany - Queen Daenerys, their ally - it set them apart, removed the united front that he suggested they take when he was aKing without a Queen besides him, with only a sister to advise. She had been like this before with the queen, but now it was even worse. She wasn’t just his sister, she was his wife. Family of the closest kind and yet he stood against her.

“She can’t go into the lion’s den alone. King’s Landing is a cesspit -” Sansa says, her voice quivering in her fear for Arya. He’s seen the scars, he’s heard her tales, he knows that this is difficult for her, but she is imagine Arya there as a prisoner there, like she was, not as a spy and assassin.

“If you had stayed, you would have heard that Arya is to be accompanied by six Northern men and six Unsullied as her personal guard.” Jon stands so he can look Sansa in the eyes and takes her face between his hands. “She’ll be protected.”

“I can’t believe you’d force her to do this. To leave her home.”

Jon sighs. “It was her idea.” Sansa jolts away from his touch in shock, eyes round and wide and surprised.

“What?”

“Arya wants to help end the war. She suggested using her skills to surprise Cersei. All the men who go with her to will be volunteers. This mission will be a choice to end a war without more violence then is needed.”

“And how will they get into the castle?”

“Arya can copy Ser Jaime’s face. As him, she’ll say the guard are defectors who want to serve their rightful queen.” Jon explains the details that Dany and Arya told him, taking Sansa in his arms. “They’ll go close to introduce themselves to Cersei, and when she embraces Arya in Jaime’s guise, she’ll put a dagger in Cersei’s heart and end this plague on Westeros, once and for all.”

“It won’t be enough. You don’t know Cersei like I do. She’ll know that something’s wrong, that it’s not really Jaime.” She closes her eyes and they stand in silence for a moment, the heat from the hot springs filling the room. Or maybe it is something else that makes his belly feel hot as a forge. “I don’t like it.”

“Dany’s plan is a good one. I promise.” Jon realizes too soon that he has said the wrong words to calm Sansa.

She steps back from him, pushing at his chest. The purple bruises on her neck glare at him in the firelight, a cruel reminder that only hours ago she didn’t look at him with such anger in her eyes. “ _Dany_ ’s plan?” Sansa laughs bitterly. “Of course. I should have known why you wouldn’t see logic.”

Jon looks at her blankly. “Sansa, what?”

“You’re a fool of a man!” Tears brim in her eyes, eyes that looked at him with a smile as she came with his name on her lips, only this morning. She fumes, seeming to struggle against her own tears, and Jon’s heart beats rapidly in his chest as he attempts to figure out what’s going on.

“Sansa, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Oh, you know _nothing_! It’s because you love her still, isn’t it?” Sansa’s tone is venom to his heart, poisoning the happy thoughts between them. “Men are blinded by love. They’re easily manipulated and she’s manipulated _you_ into giving her our little sister’s life!”

“Sansa, I told you, it was Arya’s suggestion! Dany - Daenerys merely agreed.” He sighs, knowing she won’t appreciate his next comment but its the truth. But in her rage, he cannot show her any reason. “And so do I.”

“If you agree with her so much, mayhaps you can put your cock in _her_ tonight instead!”

“Sansa I would never - ”

“Go on, I’ll allow it. I’m more then happy to share my husband if it means I won’t have to share my bed with you!” She shouts and leaves the room even more angrily than she came into it.

Jon sinks into his chair, leans back and tosses his head back with a groan.

He cannot understand why Sansa feels threatened by Dany. He promised to give her up, when the marriage proposal was made. And though it pains him so, he will not seek out the comfort of her caresses or the familiarity of her bed ever again, so long as he shall live, because he has a wife to whom he must attend.

_A wife._

This entire situation is ridiculous; he should have never agreed to marry Sansa. He thought it could bring them closer, but Sansa feels more distant then ever, unwilling to speak wholly with him or to listen when he speaks. The pounding in his head matches the pounding in his heart, the anger and resentment built up from a life being second-best to Robb, a bastard son, a threat to Lord Stark’s true children, and now he’s in one of those true children’s beds.

For a moment everything felt whole and right and real this morning. Jon saw a hope for the future, but now all he sees is despair. Jon can never renege on the comfort he felt sleeping with her besides him, how right it felt to have her in his arms, her hands on him, his kisses on her skin. But already Sansa is regretting his touch on her skin, the feelings that sprung between them in their bedded passion.

Sansa’s words ring in his ears, an angry mockery of the legacy her father left behind, of how her mother felt whenever she looked at Jon.

 _I’m more then happy to share my husband if it means I won’t have to share my bed with you_!

Of course she would be. She had finally come to her senses and realized that only a craven, wretched, vile man could lust for his once-sister as Jon did. _A craven or a Targaryen_ , his crueler thoughts whispered.

He laughed dryly. Jon was exactly what she thought he was, lusting after his sister but still wanting his aunt. He cannot have them both, but he thought he would at least have _her_. And yet somehow he has neither of them and he doubts he ever will.

Jon walked to the table besides their hearth and poured himself a glass of mead to still the sour thoughts in his mind. Nothing good could come of the things he had done, these vile union he had agreed to, and he had only himself to blame for bending to the dragon queen and lady of the wolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think and come fangirl about GOT, ASOIAF, and OT3 with me on [tumblr](http://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com/).


	10. SANSA III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa thinks on heirs and love and lust. And then, she prays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you are really going to hate me for this.
> 
> Some of you are really going to hate Sansa for this.
> 
> Please, for the love of the old gods and the new, try to keep your commentary sane. I'm human too.
> 
> (No one's been mean with this so far, I'm just nervous with this 'cause people get angry at Dany and Sansa so much when they're simple girls who deserve the happy lives they dream of).

Sansa went to Jon’s bed that night but she refused to remain.

She was a courteous lady and always mindful of her duty, and her duty now was to provide the North and Queen Daenerys with their heirs.

And so during the remainder of the day she hid in her own office, pouring over ledgers the morning after her own wedding, keeping away from wherever Jon could be. Keeping her mind off him, the way he says _Daenerys_ and the gentler way he calls the queen _Dany_ , with an intimacy that speaks of the times and ways he’s had the other queen’s body. Sansa saw the way that Jon watches Dany when they met with the queen, how his eyes followed her across the room in a way he would never be able to watch his sister-cousin. Of course Queen Daenerys was his aunt, but knowing it was not the same as having a lifetime of familiarity and thoughts between you.

And even worse, Sansa saw the way that Queen Daenerys watches Jon.

Sansa had thought her kiss with the queen right before her wedding at meant something, that there was a true closeness between them that could mean so much more. And though it brought her shame it was the queen’s fingers she imagined plunging between her folds as Jon prepared her for their coupling. She knew the differences between their touch, the queen’s fingers much softer than Jon’s inside her were. But though they shared that moment, Daenerys had kept her eyes on Jon, sometimes flicking between him and Sansa, so hungry and watching and dark with lust for a man she willingly gave away.

They deserve each other, with their fiery strength and dragons and compassion and Targaryen identities. Sansa is their broodmare, as everyone always thought she was meant to be, to produce heirs for queen and country. She wondered if the queen and Jon would fuck today, without her in the way to keep them apart, or if they would have the decency to wait until she was with child and could no longer serve his pleasures. Until that time, she will think back and think of the North, for there is no greater kingdom to serve.

She sends out a runner to bring her Lord Royce and Lord Tyrion in turn for when she needed their advice on matters of the troops’ recovery and supplies for the planned march South.

Tyrion had not been told of the plan to send Arya off to her death, and she almost told him to get him on her side. But something keeps the thought back. Perhaps it is because it is easier to pretend that it isn’t even an option, when she is reviewing the numbers of soldiers and their defenses with him, discussing the siege weapons they would need ironwood to construct, debating if what port it was easier to meet the Iron Fleet at to begin the attack on King’s Landing.

But that night after they eat their meal in the great hall, she presents herself to Jon at the lord’s chambers, the chambers meant to be theirs together as husband and wife. Jon answers within seconds of her knock.

“You do not need to announce yourself in your own chambers, my lady.”

 _My lady_. Back to a careful wall of courtesy between them both. Sansa wonders what it would be like, to be in love with the man who thrusts his cock inside her and can make her scream his name with his fingers. She blushes, thinking of how loud she was the night before. Most likely the entire castle heard her lose her own control. _They will not hear my noise tonight_.

“I will be sleeping in your old chambers, my lord. I do not know what you wish to do in your own bed and I would rather not you tell me.” Jon opens his mouth but Sansa glides by and holds up a hand. “We have a duty to each other, as husband and wife, a duty to our people as King and Queen, and a duty to our ally as you are her nearest relation.”

Keeping her steady, unwavering gaze on him, Sansa disrobes from her dressing gown and stands in nothing but her are shift. Jon steps towards her, some dark fire brimming in his hazy grey eyes. He comes nearer and tries to pull her close but before he can, she sits herself upon his bed, pulls up her shift, and spreads her thighs to show that she is not even wearing smallclothes.

“Sansa, please . . .”

“We have a duty, Jon.” She says, voice soft and solemn. She will not think of his gentle touch, of the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, of his strength in battle, the way he swore to protect her without any motivation except caring, when no one else had ever tried to protect her without some secondary motive. All these thoughts, of the Jon she knows she loves, she buries. It is better this way, if he is just a dark, nameless husband to her. A void with a cock to give her children, and not a man she briefly thought that she could fall in love with as a man and husband. “Let’s get to it, then.”

Jon’s gaze could break her heart. He looks at her like she is a porcelain doll, but Sansa is forge-made steel. She reaches out and unties his belt, pushes down his hose and smallclothes, and takes his member in her hand. Already half-stiff just from the sight of her, it is not hard to bring him to full readiness.

Jon touches between her thighs, fingers gentle, and Sansa half sighs at his touch. But she is already wet for him, for the idea of the care he brought to her bed the night before and this morning, and so she pushes him away. “I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?” Jon tries to hold her face in-between his hands but Sansa flinches away, disguising her motion by leaning back all the way on the bed.

She grabs him by the cock again and guides him to her core. “Aye. Take your wife however you’d like.” _Even if it means closing your eyes and imaging_ her. _Mayhaps that’s what I’ll do_.

But it was only Jon who pushed back the hair from her face and thrust himself into her, gently, letting her adjust to his size and girth. And though she had told herself she would lie still and let him use her, to get it over with, Sansa cannot help but meet him thrust for thrust, pressing herself against him, trying to feel him. Her arms wrap around Jon, her legs hooking into his back to adjust the feel of the angle within her.

Jon’s thrusts grow rapider, faster, and it is these sudden, hard and shallow movements that have Sansa calling his name as she comes, filled with the anger and aggression in Jon’s motions until he has spilled his seed inside her.

She latches him in her, holding him inside her even when he has gone soft and flaccid. Sansa tells herself it’s because she wants to hold in all his seed, to make sure she is with child sooner rather than later, but she knows the truth: she holds Jon to her because she feels safer there, in his arms, with that gentle strength protecting her. And that the feel of his cock inside her is a reminder of all they could be, even if it will never be, and the memory of the joy they had the night before.

But after a few moments, she disentangles herself of Jon. He rolls off her, eyes lingering on her legs and heaving breasts. Sansa sits up and before she can leave the bed, Jon presses a small, sweet kiss against her forehead. “Goodnight, my lady wife.”

“Goodnight, lord husband.”

She straightens her shift and puts back on her dressing gown before retreating to Jon’s old chambers and the bed that smells like him.

Arya comes to Sansa the morning after, waiting for her in her office, to beg Sansa to support her decision.

“Sansa I can end this war.”

“I know.” She sighs. Arya’s plan is sensible, it will spare much life. But it could lose hers. “But I cannot bear to lose you so soon after finding you. What would Mother and Father say, if I gave my approval for a suicide mission? If I let you go back south? Our family doesn’t do well there when they leave this castle.”

“They’d say that you supported me doing my duty to the realm.” Arya tries, again and again, to explain herself to Sansa. She says that Bran and Jon both support her, the dragon queen too. A few other advisors have raised questions and concerns, but they can formulate a secondary plan in case Arya’s attempt to kill Cersei goes awry.

Sansa has seen the mystical faces Arya can wear. She knows its a real power, even more so when Arya dons a new person’s mien in front of her sister.

That just has Sansa shutting her sister out, too, refusing to see her and hear more talk of the unnatural, that a person can appear so much as another, and Arya must stay where she is _safe_ and well and where her parents would want her to keep her. She crumbles under the weight of that duty, of protecting her family. It is an impossible task, a regrettable one. They are all finally together again, and safe, without threats of wights or dragons or even Cersei, and all Jon and Arya seem to want is to break the ice across the lake and plummet into the growing waters beneath.

She tries to talk to Bran about it, but he has no advice to give. His trees tell him what will happen, but he refuses to use that information to affect anyone’s mind, hers or otherwise.

So she hides in her office and her room and goes to Jon again that night. And he has her again, angrier and harder than before, and she rakes her nails down his back and comes when he calls her a cruel woman.

The rest of the sex that follows is like the second, quick and over and to the point. After half a fortnight days of silence and hiding and quiet couplings that taste of duty, she summons Brienne first thing in the morning to hear how the older woman would take the situation. Sansa explains this fool’s errand Dany - _Daenerys,_ she reminds herself, bitterly. She is only Dany to Jon, or should only be, - and Jon would so gladlyend Arya on.

“My lady, if I may . . .” Brienne says, her face contorting curiously.

Sansa nods. “I brought you here for your advice. Of course, please share your thoughts with me.”

“I believe it is the wisest route.”

Sansa’s brows furrow. She had expected Brienne to understand her side. “And why is that, prey tell?”

“Using the dragons to sack a city will terrify the residents, not behoove them to the queen. Likewise, a mostly foreign army coming in and taking control, with little Crownlanders in its midst, will take a heavy toll. The war will continue beyond the battle, with the people remembering Cersei fondly instead of as the mad queen she is.”

Brienne looks at Sansa, studies her sad, tired eyes. “If it would ease your stresses for your sister, my lady, I will gladly volunteer as one of the band of guards.”

Sansa sighs. “It would easy my stresses greatly, Brienne. Thank you for your counsel.”

After Brienne leaves, Sansa interlaces her fingers and holds them to her chin. She stares out her window at the godswood and knows that it is time for her to pray. She leaves her office silently, earlier than she has these last few days as she takes all her meals in her office and hides there or in her own chambers the rest of the day.

Sansa bends before the hearttree, her knees set in the snowbanks, and lets her thoughts wonder.

She asks the gods for guidance, to help her see a way to protect her sister, to win back her husband and keep him to her bed, to rid herself of the dragon queen and all the thoughts she brings up in Sansa’s mind, from the jealous ones to the ones that would have her be the traitor to her husband.

She prays for hours, kneeling in the snow as the day nears sunset.

Until Queen Daenerys finds her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, then come fan over ASOIAF/GOT, Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa, and OT3 on [my tumblr](http://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com/).


	11. DANY IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys confronts Sansa about their plans to defeat Cersei.

If ever there was a woman who did know the true affect her beauty has on others, it was Sansa Stark. Yes, she knows that she is beautiful, and that men lusted after her for that beauty . . . but Sansa did not seem to realize what affect her gaze has on Dany. Those bright blue eyes, two deep, crystalline pools. When she lets her guard fall and smiles, it is as if the whole world glittered like the sun ups on the sea.

When a tug in her belly pulls her from her dreams of Sansa’s kiss, Dany smiles bitterly.

She feels as if she is betraying her love for Jon by lusting after Sansa, but in fact if she were to act on her feelings for either husband or wife, they would be the traitors of the heart. If Jon had married another woman, Dany could pursue her feelings for Sansa and find out if that kiss meant what she thought it did. If Sansa had married another man, Dany could be content to still call Jon her own.

But she has lost them both to one another. She buries her face in her hands, strokes across her hair, and throws back the furs upon her bed. A bed she once shared with Jon, who now shares _his_  with Sansa, near every night from what she’s heard in the castle.

 _No matter_. Dany is a queen and queens must make hard choices and sacrifices for their people. Or else, they wouldn’t be a true queen at all.

She dresses herself and stalks out, thinking of the task she had been assigned by Arya Stark and Jon at supper the night before. It is time that someone else talks to Sansa about the plan to end the war, and Dany has been nominated.

After Arya left the high table, Jon confessed to Dany in sullen silence that his wife won’t even look at him, that she closes her eyes when they are together intimately. He stared intently at Dany in that way of his, eyes grey and deep and beautiful, like he is trying to tell her his entire story without saying the words.

Instinctively, Dany had taken his hand and squeezed it. She meant to reassure him that she understood and that she would do her best to reach through to Sansa on not just the issue of Arya’s plan but also on the issue of their marital relations and Sansa’s little tantrum. But Jon had flinched away, so repulsed by her brazen touch. It was almost as if they had never been lovers, never shared their evenings together, never touched each other’s skin and kissed each other’s scars.

She knows every line that was upon his body before the Battle for the Dawn but now she feels as if she doesn’t even know him at all.

Dany breaks her fast with Missandei, quietly sitting by her hearth fire and sharing their fondest memories of Grey Worm. Missandei asks after the child and Dany says that she is feeling better, a sad, official notice that her sickness was wholly because of the wedding and not because of the child.

She meets with Tyrion and Varys, and even spends a time talking with Jaime about the plan that has been formulated. He has not yet been told the purpose is to kill his lover, but only to get close enough to capture _her_ likeness and order the gates opened. They have a stilted discussion of strategy before Lady Brienne joins them and asks for Jaime’s help in a new training exercise.

Dany seeks out Arya then, to update her on Jaime’s suggestion to get together so she could study his habits and mannerisms closely. She watches the training in the yard for a spell, Jaime and Brienne clashing swords with their opposite hands, and smiles at the young children running round the champions. And finally, when she can postpone it no longer, she sets out to find Sansa.

A winter storm descended upon Winterfell the night before, covering the castle and the roads in thick white snow. In some areas, the snowbanks are even taller than Dany. White winds howl across the moors, tossing the snow like so many fallen leaves in the autumn months. She had thought it beautiful, when she first came North, but this shows its danger, perhaps even moreso than the Night King’s army did.

Despite this, there is still something hauntingly beautiful to the godswood as she enters it. The trees are covered in snow and thick with ice daggers spiking from their branches. And in the middle stands the hearttree and bowed before it Sansa Stark, her hair as red as the weirwood’s leaves.

When Dany enters the clearing, Sansa starts and stands, her hair fluttering behind her like a banner of blood. She looks bewildered, blue eyes drinking in all of Dany for a moment. “Your grace.”

“Your grace.” Dany nods her head in recognition of Sansa’s new title. She's always worn a crown without one on her forehead, with all the regal bearing of a queen in temperament and poise. It suits her. “I have not seen you in several days.”

“My apologies.” Sansa’s lips form a tight line, suddenly formed in displeasure. “I have been . . . busy.”

“Of course.” Dany tries to smile at her, wanting to see that beautiful smile of hers from when Sansa lets down her guard. “You are a wedded woman after all.”

“Yes. And a lady of a castle and a queen of a new realm.” Sansa’s voice is colder than the winds that ripple the godswood pool, even though Dany does not need this reminder.

Dany’s eyebrows crease to hear that ice that chills her words and concern fills her heart that something is amiss. _Did Jon hurt her? Does he?_ She wonders. Had she sent this woman into a bed that called up her old traumas? She reaches out to take Sansa’s hand, but the other woman flinches away from Dany’s touch. Her own voice softens. “Was he gentle, or did he hurt you?”

“No. He is as a husband should be.” Sansa pauses. “About the other night - ” Sansa’s cheeks turn red from old embarrassment. Dany feels no shame from her feelings, or even from her actions. “I’m sorry for making you do that, your grace.”

 _Your grace. So we are back to this._ The first time, in greeting, seemed as a jest between two equals. But this . . .This is a distant, high wall of courtesy between them. Sadness overwhelms Dany at the blossoming friendship that she has now lost, which she may never see again.

Dany sighs. “You did not make me do anything. Dragons cannot be commanded.”

“But all the same, you felt bidden to relieve my tension.” Sansa’s white teeth nibble at her red lips, and Dany feels a flush of warmth across her body. “I appreciate it, but I understand that it meant nothing. That you still desire Jon even though he is another’s husband. And I can appreciate that, too. This is a relationship between the three of us that no one wanted. In a better world, you would carry his children to be heirs to your throne, not me.”

Dany swallows, her thoughts turning away from her confused feelings and to a greater concern.

 _Does Sansa know_? She cannot, though. The only person Dany has confided her state in has been Missandei. She cannot bear to tell the news to Jon, not until her throne - her child’s throne - is secure.

She has not even consulted a midwife or maester about the pregnancy and how it may be affected by dragon riding. She does not want this secret of hers out. She resists the temptation to stroke her small, swelling stomach. It has been nearly three months since she first laid with Jon, had felt his love and strength and had his devoted protection, but her belly is much smaller. The babe cannot be more than a few weeks along, perhaps conceived in White Harbor or on the road to Winterfell.

She’d like to think the child came to its existence when they discovered the frozen waterfalls, the first time Jon rode a real dragon and not just her. The moment she realized she loved him, that her feelings were more than just lust for the handsome man and king. But that day would be too close, from what she knows of conception.

“And if my barrenness were false, Lady Stark?” Dany says, wanting to know where her child’s safety would stand with the other woman. She catches herself using the wrong title now, but Sansa does not mind. And besides, perhaps Dany will have needs to reclaim the title, if Sansa refuses in her stubbornness to rescind her future child’s claim to the Iron Throne. “What if I marry someone else, and have their child?”

“It would be heir to the Five Kingdoms of the South, your grace.” Sansa says. “And my child with Jon would be sole heir to the Kingdoms of the North, the Trident, and the Vale, as we have agreed.”

Northern independence will not be given up so easily, as Dany suspected. But still, she has more pressing concerns that the barren Northern soil and the defenseless Riverlands. “You would not try to put a second child on my throne?”

“I care nothing for the south, and neither does my husband.” Sansa states, with wavering confidence. “There are plenty holdfasts in the North in need of repair where we can send a second child to rule and build a home.”

 _My child’s rights are safe. Its life is safe._ Dany thinks with more relief than she can explain. She trusts Sansa, but she does not trust those around her, Lord Royce and all the others who could take advantage of an situation that they saw. “Then I will head south, as soon as the roads are clear enough to march and claim my own kingdoms.”

“So you will not force Arya to kill Cersei?” Sansa asks, eyes alight with some misplaced joy.

“Your sister can be commanded about as much as a dragon, your grace. But Arya grows anxious to go south, but she will not do it without your blessing.” Dany explains, a bitter laugh caught in her throat. “She asked me to speak with you, in hopes that I could bring you reason.”

“Well, it needn’t be done.”

“For lack of my ability to change your mind, or because you already have?” Dany cannot hope that Sansa would agree, but at the same time . . .

“I have changed it of my own accord, after consulting my own advisors and my gods.” Sansa rises, and for a moment the snowflakes in her hair form a crown of silver. “But I have some amendments to this plan of yours.”

“And why, pray tell, does our plan need amending?” Dany says, stepping aside to follow Sansa out of the godswood.

“Cersei is clever. She’ll see through Jaime coming to her door. She knows you would never just let him leave like that.”

“And you have a better story to mask Arya’s intentions?” Dany is impressed by Sansa’s ability to understand Cersei better even then her lover-brother, although it is understandable considering how much time they spent at each other’s sides in King’s Landing. “Tell me what it is.”

“Seventeen false defectors will attend her, not a simple dozen.” Sansa begins. “Among them will be my sworn shield, Brienne of Tarth, and Lord Royce’s son. And none of them will be your Essosi, although perhaps a Reacher man or two could represent your cause.”

“Why not?”

“She’ll never believe that the Unsullied or Dothraki would abandon you. And if she did, she’d take their heads just to be sure. I don’t believe you’d want your men to suffer that fate.” Sansa sweeps into the courtyard as regal as any queen, nodding to her people as she passes them. “The band will not leave from the castle, but rather from a siege. You will make threats but you will not attack. You will surround the castle with our armies and your dragons, and demand that Cersei surrender.”

“We both know she will not.” Dany says, unsure of where Sansa’s plan is going.

“I know. But you will still offer to give her Ser Jaime, a ship, and a chest of gold and gems to make a new life across the sea in Essos. You will tell her she has two days to respond and if she denies it, you will burn Ser Jaime at the gate.” Sansa turns towards the library tower, where her office resides.

“Shall we bring the real Jaime to give off, then, if she does agree?” Dany cannot imagine Cersei would, although it is a good thought.

“Perhaps.” Sansa shrugs and begins to climb the narrow, winding stairs of her tower. “But when Cersei does not respond, Brienne will launch an attack with these defectors. Perhaps you can stage a burning the night before, to pretend there is fear in the men’s hearts. Brienne is fond of Jaime, and Cersei knows this. So when Brienne appears from the tunnels under Maegor’s Holdfast with Arya-as-Jaime, Cersei will believe her when Brienne says she could not let him die.”

“And then?”

“And then, Arya will kill her and end the war for your throne.” Sansa steps into her office, a room lined with bookshelves. Dany has never been in here before, but she can see the careful touches that mark the space distinctly as Sansa’s: the abacuses and books on math, to help her better understand her sums, the sewing basket in the chair besides the window, the carefully embroidered curtains and the woven Stark tapestry on the wall behind.

“It seems you’ve thought this through well.” Dany inclines her head in respect and takes the seat that Sansa offers across the table from her own seat. “I will present it to my advisors. I believe our armies will be ready to march in a week or two more, and Arya’s band can come with us. The maesters say the snow should begin to melt soon enough.”

“Perhaps I’ll send my lord husband south with an heir already growing in me.” Sansa says, her words purposeful. _She knows that hurts me. She says it to hurt me_. Dany thinks. “We’ve been trying quite hard and frequently.”

“Jon had mentioned that you come ready to him every night.” Dany says back with words just as much chosen just as much to make the other bleed.

Although the words had not been said to her but rather to Sam Tarly. Jon has not spoken to just Dany since his wedding, and all their conversations with others focus on the plans for the war that they are about to begin and how to prepare the rest of their armies to trace Arya’s steps.

His conversation with Sam had been more sad than anything: whispers of duty and honor broken, his upset to be sleeping with his sister but his knowledge that they needed at least two children. His mention that she was always wet and ready, but refused to spend any moment with him besides their silent, steady coupling, and that Sansa leaves immediately after the act is done.

She loves them both, she knows, but Jon was the first man she truly loved since Drogo. Maybe since anyone. And for Jon to be so miserable in a marriage she forced him into . . . Dany sighs. Thus is the life of a man or woman born into a royal line. _Duty before love. Duty before all things_.

“Well, if that is all, your grace?” Sansa asks, her look pointed and directing towards the door.

“It is.” Dany rises, not sure where else she expected the conversation to go. But before she reaches the chamber door, Sansa stops her.

“One more thing.” Dany looks back at Sansa with hope beyond hope that she means to fix the cold void stretching between them but all that she receives are harsh, accusing words that don’t seem to understand what Dany wants at all. “I know you both wish to ravage each other, but please wait until after you leave to fuck my husband so his seed is ready for our heir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com) to talk about Dany/Sansa/Jon, Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa, ASOIAF, and GOT.


	12. JON IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tries to make up with Jon; the Lords of the Vale demand proof of the marriage's consummation; Dany comes up with a plan to protect them all.

Sansa’s rigid adherence to duty would make their father - her father - proud. She came to Jon’s bed each night, knowing what her part to play was to secure the stability of the realm’s future.

Jon hates her for it.

He thought, when this plan was devised, that they could let love blossom between them. Jon tries to make her happy but Sansa will not let him bring her to completion with his fingers during their couplings. She does not seek him out for advice or to offer her counsel like she did before when they ruled Winterfell together. Even after Dany spoke to Sansa in the godswood, and Sansa emerged from her hiding spots to join the denizens of the castle for meals and sit in on Dany’s small council meetings - even then, she does not ever speak to Jon.

He thinks his wife is happier with his former lover than she is with him. Sansa at least smiles when Dany tries to speak with her, although she does not give more than a gentle courtesy to the other queen. Mostly, though, she speaks to Arya and Bran during their meetings and their meals together and avoids his lingering gazes.

Jon wakes in the morning hard from his dreams of her skin against his and the sound of her beautiful pleasured cries of which he’s heard so little. And he has nothing but his hand to keep him company.

He woke this morning with a fearsome vision in his mind, something he quivered just to think of let alone to ever see it. Though he tried to send it away, as he took his erect member in his hand, he could not stop the vision: Sansa and Dany naked and entangled together, kissing each other, feeling each other. Their lips pressing together, devouring each other . . . He stroked himself to completion imagining Dany’s mouth on Sansa’s cunt and Sansa’s hands in Dany’s hair, Sansa’s mouth on Dany’s cunt and Dany’s hands on Sansa’s breasts. And came to his own shattering completion envisioning the two most beautiful women in all the world making each other come with their tongues.

When he has washed himself of his sinful visions and dressed for the day ahead, Jon exits his bedroom into his solar. He startles to find Sansa sitting demurely at the table in a light grey dress trimmed with white, a pile of dark red yarn in her lap. She looks up as he enters and though she does not smile, she looks happier than he’s seen her in weeks.

“Sansa?” He broaches carefully, approaching her. “What brings you here so early?”

She sets her knitting down and motions to the covered tray upon his table. “I thought, since it was your last morning here, we could break our fast together.” She lifts the lid off the tray to reveal its contents in a cloud of steam: a basket of hearty rolls, cheese and sweetmeats, a pat of butter, and a pot of tea. “I hate that we’ve been so estranged. I miss you.”

Jon reaches for a roll as he sits himself. Sansa goes to pour them both mugs of tea, setting her knitting in the basket besides her chair. He contemplates the bread in his hands, not sure how to respond. Sansa passes him the mug, but when he goes to take it she covers his hand with her own. “Can you forgive me for acting like a petulant child?”

Jon closes his eyes and sighs deeply. When he opens his eyes and meets Sansa’s pools of blue, he understands she is asking about more than just her behavior these last few weeks. She’s unsteadily asking about their arrangement, this marriage of convenience to provide another queen with an heir. To fix the mistakes he made by giving away their home in the first place. _The gods gave me this wife for all my days. She’s stubborn as a dragon, until she isn’t._

“The North is free, thanks to you.”

“To _us_. To our union.” She pulls away, a hurt look on her face. She distractedly claims her own mug and stares into its depths. “So you regret this, then?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Jon sips from his mug to give him time to gather up his thoughts and order them. “You seem not to regret it, but you won’t look at me when - ” His cheeks redden with the heat of the tea’s steam. “At night. I thought this was meant to be a partnership between a Queen and her King, but instead you hide away for days and ignore me when we’re together in public. I would like us to have a happy marriage, but I can’t build a home with no a foundation.”

Sansa is silent. She turns a weary gaze to the tray on his table, sets her mug down, and her hands fall back into her lap. “You can’t build a home without a family, either, but you seem content to send ours away.”

Jon cannot help his groan. “Arya said that you were passed this. That you even had some ideas for getting past Cersei.”

“That doesn’t mean I like this plan. It’s foolish and you all seem so ready to send Arya into the lion’s den without considering the consequences to her or to us.”

He thinks of the full conversation Sansa had with Dany at their meal yesterday, discussing southron dress patterns or some other ladylike pursuit. “Why are you so willing to forgive Daenerys but so set on hating me for the same decision?”

“She has no choice, Jon. She leads for her people, chooses what is best for her own kingdoms. But you _do_ and you choose to support her over your own kingdom and your own family and your own _wife_.” Her voice cracks as she says it. “I thought you trusted me, at least, even if we haven’t had time to grow a different love.”

“It’s hard, when your own wife won’t speak to you.”

“Well, your grace, I’m speaking to you now, it just seems you do not deign to listen!” Sansa stands and grabs her knitting basket, furious tears spilling from her eyes. Jon makes to go after her. When he grabs at her elbow she meets him with terror. Sansa’s eyes are wide and her mouth open in shock.

Jon pulls away his grip as if burnt, having not realized what any harsh action could remind her of. “Sansa, I -”

“Leave me be.” She stops before the door and dips into a low curtsy. “I will see you at council, your grace. Farewell.”

Jon falls back into his seat and watches her leave like she is the last sunset he will ever see. He runs his hands over his face and buries them in his hair. How can he recover from this? He knows what she said, but how can she not _see_ the choice they made, to save many and more of their own?

He agonizes for a while more over Sansa’sdeclaration, the meal she brought going cold at his side. But eventually, Jon arises. He has preparations to make for his journey on the morrow and arrangements to oversee within Winterfell. He joins Brienne and Podrick in the yard for training before running an instruction for the young children still interested in learning archery. They are not included as the forces going south, but the population of the North was always dense and the wars will leave them nearly defenseless. Jon meets with Tormund to discuss the resettlement plans for the Wildings in the Vale, but eventually must face the uncomfortable position he has avoided thinking about all day: the council with all the lords.

He settles into his seat between Sansa and Daenerys, refusing to look at either woman. The lords go through their qualms and quarrels with the siege plan. Daenerys determined it was too dangerous to tell anyone outside their inner circle about the true plan, with Arya and her faces and her men, and so only a select few involved know the truth of the plan. When the gathering has reached the end of its agenda without Sansa or Dany sniping at him, Jon considers it a success. But as Sansa turns to dismiss them all, a Vale lord rises from the trestle tables.

“Your graces, if I may?”

Daenerys nods her assent and quietly turns to Sansa, still unused to the title. Finally, she speaks. “You may proceed, Lord Templeton.”

“I’ve been chosen from a few of the other lords to speak, if it pleases your graces.” He looks to the ground. “Not meaning to be rude, but how do we know that your marriage is true? The concern is, you could try to take control of the Vale and the Riverlands without guaranteeing that what you’ve done to hold the alliance together is truthful.”

Jon rises, pressing his clutched fists into the table. “My lords, we bear you no ill will. There is no reason to believe that this marriage is a farce.”

“Queen Sansa was once your sister.” Lord Templeton says, as if Jon needs any reminding. “Is it so strange to think you would refuse to bed her?”

“He’s Targaryen, I’m sure he finds pleasure in bedding his sister.” Another lord calls out. The laughs of lords and soldiers rumble in their bellies and fill the room.

Dany holds up her pale hand and is met with a deafening silence. Jon settles back into his seat like an embarrassed child. When she speaks it is in a calm, collect tone, her voice unwavering. “I have as much invested in the success of this alliance, my lords. If they are not lying together, it is not just north Westeros that will be thrown to chaos for I will not have an heir either. We cannot do much because our forces depart tomorrow, but tonight I will witness their coupling and ensure all is as it should be.”

Jon stiffens. _This is mayhem_. His former lover, his aunt, his once-queen, observing him bedding his once sister, his now cousin, his wife? _This is madness_. He turns to Sansa, her face an unreadable mask of ice. Perhaps she can convince the lords out of it, with a well-versed speech or pretty words like she is so good at doing, but she remains still as stone. _Is it the shock or the fear or the rest?_ He turns, ready to try a speech of his own, but the lords are cheering, applauding this contrived plan for Daenerys to watch them.

He falls back into his chair. Sansa reaches over and clutches his hand. Her grip is tight and firm, stronger than he would have expected. She whispers, “We will survive. Starks endure. We always do, we always will.”

And then, Jon remembers what she told him of her second wedding and the fury boils in him as he realizes what cruel memories this will bring to her mind. Theon Greyjoy watched as Ramsey raped her. “We can fight it, I am sure Dany will -”

Sansa pulls away and rises as regal as any queen, as if the world’s crashing does not phase her. “Then it is agreed. Queen Daenerys will observe and report to you all in the morning before she takes her leave of Winterfell. If there are no more questions of our marriage, you may be dismissed.”

Jon disappears out the side door of the Great Hall, not wanting to respond to any of the suggestive calls of the lords who know him so little. He retreats to the Broken Tower, bashing the walls of it with a wooden practice sword until it breaks, then collecting the pieces to throw and smash with his hands. Eventually he collapses upon the floor, disbelieving what they are about to make him do. There is so much he has already taken from himself, failing to go to his father’s rescue and holding to his vows, killing men he called his brothers, betraying his vows for a woman he loved, dying and rising, bedding a woman who he once called sister, a wife who scarcely loves him, but this may be the worst of them all.

And that is where Daenerys finds him, as the dusk turns to night. “It’s time.”

Jon looks up at her, the picture of a broken man. “Must we?”

Dany kneels before him and takes his face between her soft, small hands. For all that she is fierce as the dragon she rides, she has a gentle touch. He leans into it, ignores the guilt of finding comfort in her. He has been so devoid of any of it since the morning after his wedding and it feels so _good_ to be held, even just like this. He hates that she can do this to him, make him feel so loved and cared for even with a simple touch. He hates that she took this comfort from him and gave him all this conflict, all to secure a throne he can only hope melts before her dragons.

But _gods_ , does Jon miss Dany, the way she tastes, the way she looks at Jon after they’ve made love, like he’s the sun of her sky and no problem is too great to conquer together, not even the Night King.

“My sweet prince.” She whispers, her thumbs idly tracing the strength of his jaw. “There are lords waiting outside your chambers. Our dear Sansa awaits you there. It would shame her, if you were not to go. She would lose their support and we could not leave her here alone unless you want her to lose the North as well.”

“I -” Jon chokes back his fear. “Then we shall go.”

Dany rises and offers Jon her hand, pulls him up to his feet with godly strength. Jon’s strain does not leave him and by the time they reach his chamber his back is as stiff and straight as the wall. True to Dany’s description, a half dozen drunken lords, all but one from the Vale, wait outside his chamber. They are joined by four Unsullied with tensed jaws, although they do not reveal their feelings on this matter. Jon flinches as the lords make bawdy comments his way. One even tries to follow him and Dany into his room. She turns on him with fire in her eyes.

“I will be the _only_ witness.” Daenerys says, voice unyielding. “And if I find any of you remaining when I emerge, you can be sure to face my wrath.”

She gives her guards a command in High Valyrian and they move to block the door from the lords as Jon follows her into his own chambers.

The tray from breakfast has been cleared from the solar chamber, replaced by a tray of candied fruits and wine. Daenerys picks it up on their way to his bedroom. Inside, a single chair and a small table have been set directly before his bed. Sansa sits on the edge of the bed in only her shift, her ankles crossed as she waits.

Daenerys sets the tray upon the table and takes the seat.

“Queen Sansa, would you like a glass of wine?” Dany offers cheerfully. _She’s much too chipper for the occasion_ , Jon thinks. _Shouldn’t she be upset to watch her lover with another woman?_

“Yes, your grace.” Sansa says, and accepts a cup when Daenerys pours it. By the time Jon is handed one, Sansa is holding out her glass for a second. Daenerys fills her cup to the brim and looks back at the door. The room is silent so they all here the six sharp knocks from the outside.

Sansa jumps in her place. If there way any wine left in her glass, it would have spilt. “What was that?”

“A message from the Unsullied captain outside.” Dany explains, and plucks a candied grape from the tray. She pops it in her mouth before continuing. “It means the lords have all left the hall. I asked my men to be a bit _aggressive_ in hopes it would scare off any men lurking at the door hoping for a peep show.”

Sansa’s face relaxes immediately. Jon asks, “You mean we don’t need to complete this farce?”

“Of course not. Did you really think I’d let them do that to you, after what you told me of your last marriage?” Dany’s face softens and she reaches to take Sansa’s hand in hers. “I wanted to tell you both I had a plan, but you were both too busy brooding and being difficult for me to find you.” She pops another grape in her mouth, the hint of a smirk on her lips. _It’s for good cause_ , Jon reasons. _She saved Sansa. And me._ “I think that may be the worst collective trait of all you Starks, you know. You lot all brood too much. I would have complained sooner, if you didn’t look so comely as you did it.”

Sansa’s face is red as their wine, even as she stands to pour herself a third glass. Jon quietly holds out his own as a request for another. Sansa tops off Dany’s drink as well, then settles back on the bed. “What now?”

“Well, I should stay a while longer at least. No one would believe it went so quickly.” Dany shrugs and sips her wine. “It may be helpful to rock the bed or make some loud noises of pleasure, in case a servant passes by, but if you don’t want to - ”

With a surprisingly joyful giggle, Sansa downs her wine and jumps upon the bed. It creaked and groaned beneath her wait. She giggles and jumps up again before scampering off. Sansa sets her empty glass on the little table and grabs both Jon and Dany by the hand.

He’s bewildered as she pulls them both to the bed, falling in a heap of people. Sansa jumps up and its clear she wants Jon and Dany to join in. Jon looks uncomfortable, but Dany is quick to join his wife. The two women giggle and hold hands as they jump around him.

“Jon, make a noise, loudly!” Sansa commands. “It best be convincing.”

He widens his eyes but manages a half-hearted moan as Sansa and Dany collapse besides him. Dany rolls over and playfully bats his arm. “I can do better than that!” She attempts a moan, and while its close to the sounds he’s brought out of her before, the comparison ends in an unfamiliar fit of giggles. Jon tries again, mimicking the sense of release, before Sansa quiets him with a full kiss.

She pulls back immediately, her cheeks red and her eyes meeting Dany’s. “I’m so sorry, I - ”

“It’s alright, Sansa. He’s your husband. Of course you kiss him.” Dany says, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Although, may I show you a better way to engage it?”

When Sansa nods her consent, Dany leans in and presses her lips to Jon’s. His eyes widen in shock before he sinks into it, their love coming back like a memory of a dream. Where Sansa’s kiss was quick and firm, Dany’s kiss is slow and soft. She nips at his lip just a little, but pulls away before it goes too far. “See? You can put sensuality and excitement into even a little kiss on the surface. Go ahead, try it.”

Sansa leans in, her motions hesitant.Jon sits up and pulls her into his lap to help guide her a little. This time, her kiss is slower, but still firm. That firmness might just be a bit of Sansa, and he doesn’t mind at all. Jon sinks into the feeling of her, remembering how good things were the first night .. .

Daenerys clears her throat besides them. “Lovely, Sansa. The kiss, not you. Although you’re lovely, too.” She steps off the bed, her words slurring together. “I should really be going, I think it’s been enough time that they’ll believe it when I confirm you coupled tonight. I’ll let you get to that task, then.”

“No!” Sansa says, and pulls from Jon’s lap. She takes Dany’s hands. “Stay with us.”

“Sansa?” He asks, brow knitting together in confusion.

“I only mean, wouldn’t it be nice if she laid in the bed tonight? Just the three of us together? I sleep better with others around, but Arya’s been away most nights, and Brienne’s been with Ser Jaime . . .”

“If Jon agrees, I’ll stay.”

They both look at him with pleading eyes, eyes that Jon cannot say no too. “You’d best send your guards away, or people will wonder why they were here all night.”

Dany smiles widely before disappearing to the solar to do just that.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Sansa?” Jon asks. He pushes a lose strand of hair behind her ear. “She’ll understand if you’ve changed your mind.”

“I feel comfortable with her. At least when we’re not fighting. I’d so hate for you both to leave and die without me making you understand that.” She says, and tugs at his shirt. “Now prepare for bed. You still have your shoes on.”

Jon has changed into a nightrobe by the time Dany returns, and he blows out the candles in the room as Sansa helps Dany strip to her shift. They both pull him into the bed and settle beneath the covers, one queen on either side of him. Before Jon knows it, they are both asleep and so is he, with one final thought on his mind.

_This is as it is meant to be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it wasn't clear, Dany and Sansa are both drunk. This originally had a much angstier, smuttier ending, but I just didn't love it. I may end up publishing it as a separate fic connected to this one but first I'd have to finish it. (Pretty much, they consummate while Dany watches behind a screen, Sansa's kind of bitchy about it and stares in her eyes during the thing, then feels bad and invites Dany to cuddle. This felt more true to the dynamic that I eventually want, though).
> 
> Let me know what you think, then come hangout on [tumblr](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com) to talk about Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa, OT3, ASOIAF, and GOT. I also take prompts in my [ask box](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com/ask/).


	13. SANSA IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wakes up as Dany tries to go; Sansa and Jon say their goodbyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of fun before everyone's separated and a little bit of angst because that's like half the story.

For the first time since the morning after her wedding, Sansa does not wake up alone. And he sound of a servant stoking the hearth fire does not rouses her from a restless sleep. Instead, her deep slumber is interrupted by the rustling silks of a woman dressing.

Sansa blinks open her eyes to watch Daenerys pull on her dress like a knight donning his armor. Outside of the keep, darkness still clutches its angry hands upon the night. The full moon and stars illuminate Dany’s silver hair, still held in her complicated braids, but some strands of hair are mussed from sleep and poke out from her buns. Dany is smoothing the cloth on her belly, studying herself in Jon’s looking glass. She licks her lip as Dany adjusts the fall of her skirt, running her hand across her firm arse.

Sansa pushes her thighs together, unsure why that familiar warmth isbuilding up in her core. She doesn’t mean to wiggle, but when she moves her hips, Jon tightens his arm where it holds her at her hips. He pulls her closer and nuzzles his chin against her neck with a sleepy groan.

Jon’s noises draw Dany’s attention and her gaze snaps to the bed. Sadness fills her eyes as she looks at the two of them intertwined, but the look is gone when she realizes that Sansa stares right back at her. “Why are you leaving? It’s still dark out.”

“Yes.” Dany reaches for her boots on the ground besides her. “Most of the castle will be asleep now. I can return to my chamber without anyone noticing where I come from.”

Sansa gingerly unwraps Jon’s arm from around her body and slips out from under the pile of covers. He mumbles protests as his head falls into the pillows. A cool rush of air flutters the lining of her nightshift and the slate tiles are cold against her bare feet. “Don’t go.” She bites her lip again and takes Dany’s hand from her, stops her from putting on her shoes. “Please.”

“What they would say about us here . . . it would shame us all.” Dany says, turning to look out a leaden window instead of at Sansa. There is fear in her eyes, a wholly vulnerable look that Sansa doesn’t understand. Sansa puts her other hand on Dany’s cheek and makes her look at her. In the quiet of the early morning, she studies the queen. How delicate, fragile she looks in this lighting, her skin as pale as the moon and hair as silver as the stars. A gentle soul burns inside her, and something scares her more than just this bedding.

“What’s wrong, Dany? You can confide in me, I swear it.”

Dany’s chocking sob comes unexpected, as she throws herself against Sansa. The force startles her, but she pulls Dany tight against her chest and rubs calming circles against her back. For a moment, Dany feels a bit bigger than Sansa knows she is. But that is gone as the woman pulls away and Sansa can see that her dress falls just the same as it had last week.

“I cannot tell you. You would not understand.” Dany sniffles, straightening her back as if trying to save her dignity.

“Is it about Jon?”

Daenerys pauses. “Yes.”

Sansa understands that all too well. She wants him, but he wants Dany, who wants him, but neither would act to ruin the marriage that seals the fates of both their kingdoms. She hates herself for it, just a little, but she just wants Dany and Jon to be _happy_. All three of them don’t need to be miserable in this arrangement. “I regret the words I said the other week. I know you both don’t wish to dishonor yourselves or me, but I would not mind . . .” She takes a deep breath. “I would not mind it, if you sought your comforts with each other. When I am not with you.”

Daenerys steps back, perhaps from the shock of what Sansa has said. “Sansa, that’s not what I - ”

“Sh.” Sansa holds up her hand, looking back at Jon’s sleepless form upon the bed. He’s so innocent in the soft moonlight. So pure and untouched by darkness and by war. If only his life had been that easy, like the songs will make it out to be. But real life is not so simple or melodic as the songs they will sing about them all.

“It’s alright, to want him. To love him.” Her gaze softens.“He’s so easy to love, isn’t he?”

Dany’s eyes widen. “You’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you?” She takes Sansa’s hand. “Despite spending nearly your entire marriage fighting, you love him.”

“Every other man I’ve met would try to contain my storm, my ice.” She smirks. “My fire. But Jon . . . he lets me rage as I have needed to. He would not pen a wolf or cage a dragon. Joffrey hit me for even small defiances. Ramsey raped me because the power and control felt good. Littlefinger would have hurt me if it helped him. Jon has not once tried to harm me, no matter the spite he must be feeling. So yes, I love him. For he is kind, and gentle, and _good_.”

She shakes her head, surprised at how much she has said. “But that’s not the point. I love you as well. For your friendship and support and strength. You gave everything to save the North and then still gave it up. I want the people I love to be happy. And if you need each other to be happy, who am I to stop that?”

“Oh, _Sansa_.”

Dany’s lips are soft upon her own. Jon kisses come gently, sweetly. They are mostly slow, exploratory, learning every inch of her. But Dany’s kiss is demanding, insistent. She commands Sansa to enjoy herself, to find her pleasure in the other woman’s touch. It is the kiss of a queen, not just a lover.

As Dany nips at Sansa’s lips, Sansa can taste the wine from earlier that night on Dany’ tongue as she slides it in to Sansa’s mouth. Dany’s hands find Sansa’s hips and pull her close with a gentle intensity. Although the other woman is smaller, she controls their motions. Sansa wraps her arms around Dany’s shoulders, wanting more but not knowing what more means.

In this moment they feel like part of the same creature, not separate people. Sansa smells the sweet fragrance of Dany’s perfume mixing with the sweat of their romp earlier in Jon’s bed. Jon, her husband, sleeping in the same room where she kisses her aunt. The thrill of it sends streams of fire up Sansa’s back. Her heart beats faster and faster and her own courage builds as the kiss deepens. Sansa takes Dany’s lips between her teeth, something she not done to anyone before, and nibbles at the tender flesh.

Daenerys trembles in Sansa’s arms, both of them giddy on love and lust and things between. Sansa, emboldened, kneads the plumpness of Dany’s ass. When her soft little moan comes, Sansa makes to devour it before it can wake Jon. This is not something that she is ready to explain. If she can ever explain it. She wonders if he could understand.

The thoughts of him are too much. Sansa pulls back suddenly, scared to lose herself in Dany anymore than she already has. “Will you come back to bed, then?”

Daenerys’s smile is small and sad. “You know why I have to go.”

Sansa nods. “I understand. Put on your shoes, and then I’ll show you the servant’s stair. None of the lordly gossips will find you back there since its hidden.”

When Daenerys finishes preparing herself, Sansa shows her the back stairs used to maintain the water pipes that heat the castle’s walls. Sansa grabs her hand as she exits Jon’s chamber and squeezes. “I’ll say my farewells come morning, your grace.”

“You think that Jon is gentle and I am strong, but you are the bravest of us al, your grace.” Dany smiles for her, not Daenerys the queen, despite her formal courtesies. “Until the morrow.”

Sansa settles back beneath the furs on Jon’s bed. _The bed that once was my own_ , she thinks, _until I gave it up._ Her husband wraps his arms back around her, presses a sleepy kiss into the groove of her collarbone, and she is fast asleep.

* * *

In the morning, she wakes with Jon’s arms wrapped around her, the feeling so much like _home_ she almost cries. Sansa’s thighs are still warm and wet from her interaction with Dany and she still remembers the beauty of their quick morning coupling the day after their wedding.

Boldly, she whispers his name between soft little kisses against his neck until he wakes.

“Mhm,” he mumbles, leaning into her touch. Jon’s hardness pushes against Sansa’s core and she bucks a little against it. His eyes flash open. “Sansa, I’m so sorry, I - ”

Jon’s apologies make her laugh, and her laughter makes him cross.

He rolls away from her and sits up on the other side of the bed. Still giggling, Sansa crawls behind him. As he makes to rise, she sets a hand on his shoulder and pulls him back to the bed. Sansa kisses his shoulder, his neck, the line of his jaw . . .

Only after she stopped laughing can she explain that he has nothing to apologize for. “I want you.”

“Sansa?”

“I want you, now. Please.” She explains. “I don’t want to remember you for months like yesterday morning, both of us angry and confused. Don’t leave that as the last thing I see. If you were to die, and that was all I had to tell a child . . .”

Jon turns at her words, eyes wide in awe. His words are filled with hesitations. “Are you - are you with child?”

 _The bravest of us all_. She wants to believe Dany’s words, but she’s not sure she deserves it. But if she pretends at boldness and bravery, maybe she can earn them.

“I could be, but I don’t know.” Sansa crawls into his lap. “But we have one last turn to try.”

She kisses Jon like she has wished to for too long: deep and hard and a little bit rough, biting at his lips as she tried with Dany, pulling him against her and bunching up her nightshift in the same motion. Jon startles at first, pulling away and staring at her with terrified, wide eyes. “Sansa?”

“Make love to me, you fool. I want you. And I think you want me too.”

Jon settles his hands against the divots of her waist with reverence. Their kiss is hard and moist and breathy, rising heat in her cheeks and heart. Jon untangles from her long enough to untie his breeches, then pulls her back into his lap to kiss her hard.

Jon dips his hand between them to prepare her, using the other to massage her breasts and bring her nipples into stiff peaks. After only minutes of his careful, soothing touch and rougher than normal kisses, Sansa comes undone. “I want you on top. Can you do that for me, milady?”

The dangerousness that seeps into his voice excites her. “Mhm, yes.” She murmurs.

Sansa uses her thighs to press off the bed so Jon can align his cock with her quim. She settles onto him with a moan, squeezing around him like she knows her likes. Jon sets his hands on her hips, lightly, gently, but Sansa has control.

She’s nervous, sitting astride his lap with him inside her. Septa Mordane and her mother never said it could be like this, but they never told her lots of things. She wonders if it could hurt him, if controlling like this is harder than being beneath. Jon keeps his gaze steady on her face, tracing his thumbs idly on the skin of her hips.

As she begins to rock herself with unsure movements, he press a searing kiss against the skin of her neck. Sansa moans at the contact, lets him feel her and fill her. Her nub rubs against the skin of his stomach and the bottom of his cock, drawing out more of her crooning moans. She lets the feelings overcome her as she tries to rise and return. Jon uses gentle strokes to meet her motions with light grunts. The feeling is sweetness and ecstasy, the things she was promised in the songs.

When she sinks down so Jon is deep inside her, Sansa rotates her hips with circular motions. Jon leans in and murmurs against her skin, kisses it, and nips at the bruise he left there earlier. She chases the pleasure she can feel oncoming, letting her movements on his cock get faster and faster, rising and returning with an unknown urgency.

Sansa loves the sounds of Jon’s grunts as they meet and his moans as she meets his hips and squeezes around his member. She loves the feel of Jon inside her, as they connect and become one. She loves Jon’s laugh and his smile, his way of telling stories and how he always looks like its brooding. She loves the way he brings her to pleasure whenever she will let him, like he does now, for the second time today already, setting his hand above where they meet and flicking at her sensitivity until she comes undone around.

That’s when she tells him all her truths, whispering it against his skin like a caress. “Jon, I love you. I don’t want you to leave, gods I love you, I love you, I love you . . .”

She’s stopped moving her body against his, but the tight spasming of her cunt around his cock sends Jon into his own madness. He thrusts up one last time into her, then holds onto her as they both fall back onto the bed, together in their bliss.

* * *

Sansa greets Daenerys in the great hall early in the morning with a purple bruise worn proudly as any gem on her neck. Without explaining that Jon woke up hard against her back and she woke up confused and wanting, Sansa hands over a brown paper wrapped package. “A parting gift, your grace.”

Daenerys eyes it carefully but accepts the package. With delicate hands, she unties and unwraps it. She pulls out the crimson scarf, but her brow is still knit together in confusion. “Thank you, Sansa, but isn’t it supposed to be warmer in the south?”

Sansa takes her seat with a smile. “It’s a token of appreciation. For saving the North and all her people.” _For saving me_ , she wants to say, although she’s not quite sure what Dany saved her from.

“Thank you, then.” Dany wraps the scarf around her neck, wearing it proudly as lords, commanders, the Starks, and Jon finally join them. Jon grins sheepishly at Sansa as he settles to her left, ducking his head when she smiles back.

He didn’t say he loved her back, when she confessed her feelings to him. Perhaps he wasn’t ready, or he was too focused on his own pleasure to respond. Perhapshe was thinking of her moans and words coming from another woman.

Sansa wonders what it will be like, if Dany decides to take her husband back as her lover. A deep, dark, secretive place in her mind wonders if she could watch. She quaffs back her full cup of hot green tea before anyone can notice the blush enflaming her pale cheeks.

Most of her tea bursts from her mouth in a coughing fit when Arya plops in the seat across from Sansa with a dark bruise on her own neck. _That can only mean one thing_. She raises her eyebrow but all Arya gives in return is a smirk that suggests whoever she is fucking left her well satisfied.

Once, Sansa would have been horrified to know her sister was engaging intimately with a man not her husband. Now, she’s just glad that Arya’s found someone who seemingly makes her happy. Even if that man is not someone Sansa has personally met. Although, considering her own thoughts and strange, foreign feelings for Dany, it could well be a woman who has attracted Arya.

After they’ve broken their fast, its time to say their farewells to the warriors who will destroy Cersei. Nearly every able-bodied man is heading south with Jon and Daenerys, ready to end their final enemy. Sansa stands besides Jon as he readies his horse, wrapped in her cloak but still shivering from the thought of his loss.

“By the time you return, we may have a child. Does that frighten you?”

“No, it gives me another reason to fight.” Jon sets his gloved hand on her cheek and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. “I’ll miss you, Sansa.”

“Will you?” She dares to almost hope again, but something holds her back. Sansa throws up the walls she’s used to, with bitter jabs disguised as poor jokes. “You’ll have all the company you could want, a princely king in King’s Landing. A Targaryen in the Red Keep.”

“Of course I’ll miss you.”

“It’s alright you know, if you don’t. I don’t mind if you have her, truly. I said it of spite before, but now I just want you to be happy.” The words _hurt_ to tell him, but it is true. Sansa will prioritize his happiness over her own, over everything except the North and her other family.

Jon’s hand falls from her face and he steps back. His jaw strains, as if she has said something to offend him. “Your grace, I will protect our sister with everything I have. And then I will come home and we can build this castle anew for our children.”

His words are serious and everything she wants to hear, but something is wrong. So many things are wrong, with him and Dany and Arya, but no one will tell her what distresses them. Frustration fills her with every conversation she has had this morning, everything people have left unsaid. She doesn’t want to leave them like this, but now is not the time to rage against Jon and beg his forgiveness for whatever she has done.

Sansa maintains her facade of cool, forgiving grace. _I will not let anyone see me cry_ , she swears. _Not even him_.“I eagerly await that return. Of both of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I trying too hard with the angst? Maybe. 
> 
> Is it fun to write? Very much yes.
> 
> Let me know what you think, then come hangout on [tumblr](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com) to talk about Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa, OT3, ASOIAF, and GOT. I also take prompts in my [ask box](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com/ask/).


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